The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 


The 


Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 


By 
Gilbert  Parker 

Author  of  "  The  Seats  of  the  Mighty,"    "  When  Valmond 
Came  to  Pontiac,"    "  Pierre  and  His  People  " 


Boston  and  New  York 

Lamson,  Wolffe,  and  Company 

London 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  Lamson,  Wolffe,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Norwood  Press 

J.  5.  Cashing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


SRLE  [^/?/B 

URL' 


To 
Sir  George  and  Lady  Innes 

In  Memory  of 

Happy  and  Hospitable  Hours 
at  "  Winslow  " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 


Chapter  I 

YOU    could  not  call  the  place  a  village, 
nor  yet   could   it   be  called  a   town. 
Viewed  from  the  bluff",  on  the  English 
side  of  the  river,  it  was  a  long  stretch 
of  small  farmhouses,  some  painted  red  with 
green  shutters,  some  painted  white  with  red 
shutters,  set  upon  long  strips  of  land,  green, 
yellow,  and  brown,  as  it  chanced  to  be  past- 
ure land,  fields  of  grain,  or  "  plough-land." 

These  long  strips  of  property,  fenced  oft 
one  from  the  other,  so  narrow  and  so  precise, 
looked  like  pieces  of  ribbon  laid  upon  a  wide 
quilt  of  level  country.  Far  back  from  this 
level  land  lay  the  dark  limestone  hills  which 
had  rambled  down  from  Labrador,  and  cross- 
ing the  River  St.  Lawrence,  stretched  away 
into  the  English  province.  The  farmhouses 
and  the  long  strips  of  land  were  in  such  regu- 
lar procession,  it  might  almost  have  seemed 
to  the  eye  of  the  whimsical  spectator  that 


2        The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

the  houses  and  the  ribbon  were  of  a  piece, 
and  had  been  set  down  there,  sentinel  after 
sentinel,  like  so  many  toy  soldiers,  along  the 
banks  of  the  great  river.  There  was  one 
important  break  in  the  long  line  of  precise 
settlement,  and  that  was  where  the  Parish 
Church,  about  the  middle  of  the  line,  had 
gathered  round  it  a  score  or  so  of  buildings. 
But  this  only  added  to  the  strength  of  the 
line  rather  than  broke  its  uniformity.  Wide 
stretches  of  meadow-land  reached  back  from 
the  Parish  Church  until  they  were  lost  in 
the  darker  verdure  of  the  hills. 

On  either  side  of  the  Parish  Church,  with 
its  tall  stone  tower,  were  two  stout-built 
houses  set  among  trees  and  shrubbery.  They 
were  low-set,  broad,  and  square,  with  heavy- 
studded,  old-fashioned  doors.  The  roofs  were 
steep  and  high,  with  dormer  windows  and  a 
sort  of  shelf  at  the  gables. 

They  were  both  on  the  highest  ground 
in  the  whole  settlement,  a  little  higher  than 
the  site  of  the  Parish  Church.  The  one  was 
the  residence  of  the  Old  Seigneur,  Monsieur 
Duhamel ;  the  other  was  the  Manor  Casim- 
bault,  empty  now  of  all  the  Casimbaults. 
For  a  year  it  had  lain  idle,  until  the  only  heir 
of  the  old  family,  which  was  held  in  high 
esteem  as  far  back  as  the  time  of  Louis 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes        3 

Quinze,  returned  from  his  dissipations  in 
Quebec  to  settle  in  the  old  place  or  sell  it 
to  the  highest  bidder. 

Behind  the  Manor  Casimbault  and  the 
Seigneury,  thus  flanking  the  Church  at  rev- 
erential distance,  another  large  house  com- 
pleted the  acute  triangle,  forming  the  apex 
of  the  solid  wedge  of  settlement  drawn  about 
the  Church.  This  was  the  great  farmhouse 
of  the  Lavilettes,  one  of  the  most  noticeable 
families  in  the  Parish. 

Of  the  little  buildings  bunched  beside  the 
Church,  not  the  least  important  was  the  Post 
Office,  kept  by  Papin  Baby,  who  was  also 
keeper  of  the  bridge,  which  was  almost  at 
the  door  of  the  Office.  This  bridge  crossed 
a  stream  that  ran  into  the  larger  river,  form- 
ing a  harbour.  It  opened  at  the  centre, 
permitting  boats  and  vessels  to  go  through. 
Baby  worked  it  by  a  lever.  A  hundred  yards 
or  so  above  the  bridge  was  the  parish  mill, 
and  between  were  the  Hotel  France,  the  lit- 
tle house  of  Doctor  Montmagny,  the  Regi- 
mental Surgeon,  (as  he  was  called)  the  cooper 
shop,  the  blacksmith,  the  tinsmith,  and  the 
grocery  shops.  Just  beyond  the  mill  upon 
the  banks  of  the  river  was  the  most  noto- 
rious if  not  the  most  celebrated  house  in  the 
settlement. 


4        The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

Shangois,  the  travelling  Notary,  lived  in 
it  —  when  he  was  not  travelling.  When  he 
was,  he  left  it  unlocked,  all  save  one  room, 
and  people  came  and  went  through  the  house 
as  they  pleased,  eying  with  curiosity  the 
dusty,  tattered  books  upon  the  shelves,  the 
empty  bottles  in  the  corner,  the  patchwork 
of  cheap  prints,  notices  of  sales,  summonses, 
accounts,  certificates  of  baptism,  memoranda, 
receipted  bills,  —  though  they  were  few, — 
tacked  or  stuck  to  the  wall. 

No  grown-up  person  of  the  village  meddled 
with  anything,  no  matter  how  curious ;  for 
this  consistent,  if  unspoken,  trust  displayed 
by  Shangois  appealed  to  their  better  instincts. 
Besides,  they,  like  the  children,  had  a  whole- 
some fear  of  the  disreputable,  shrunken,  di- 
shevelled little  Notary  with  the  bead-like  eyes, 
yellow  stockings,  hooked  nose,  and  palsied 
left  hand.  Also  the  knapsack  and  black  bag 
he  carried  under  his  arms  contained  more 
secrets  than  most  people  wished  to  tempt 
or  challenge  forth.  Few  cared  to  anger  the 
little  man  whose  father  and  grandfather  had 
been  notaries  here  before  him. 

Like  others  in  the  settlement  Shangois 
was  the  last  of  his  race.  He  could  put  his 
finger  upon  the  secret  history  and  private 
lives  of  nearly  every  person  in  a  dozen  Par- 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes        5 

ishes,  but  most  of  all  in  Bonaventure  —  for 
such  this  long  Parish  was  called.  He  knew 
to  a  hair's  breadth  the  social  value  of  every 
human  being  in  the  Parish.  He  was  too 
cunning  and  acute  to  be  a  gossip,  but  by 
direct  and  indirect  ways  he  made  every  person 
feel  that  the  Cure  and  the  Lord  might  for- 
give their  pasts,  but  he  could  never  forget 
them,  nor  wished  to  do  so.  For  Monsieur 
Duhamel  the  Old  Seigneur,  for  the  drunken 
Philippe  Casimbault,  for  the  Cure,  and  for 
the  Lavilettes  who  owned  the  great  farm- 
house at  the  apex  of  that  wedge  of  village 
life  he  had  a  profound  respect.  The  Parish 
generally  did  not  share  his  respect  for  the 
Lavilettes. 

Once  upon  a  time,  beyond  the  memories 
of  any  in  the  Parish,  the  Lavilettes  of  Bona- 
venture were  a  great  people.  Disaster  came, 
debt  and  difficulty  followed,  fire  consumed 
the  old  house  in  which  their  dignity  had  been 
cherished,  and  at  last  they  had  no  longer 
their  seigneurial  position,  but  that  of  ordinary 
farmers  who  work  and  toil  in  the  fields  like 
any  of  the  fifty-acre  farmers  on  the  banks  of 
the  St.  Lawrence  River. 

Monsieur  Louis  Lavilette,  the  present  head 
of  the  house,  had  not  married  well.  At  the 
time  when  the  feeling  against  the  English 


6        The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

was  the  strongest,  and  when  his  own  fortunes 
were  precarious,  he  had  married  a  girl  some- 
what older  than  himself,  who  was  half  English 
and  half  French,  her  father  having  been  a 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  factor  on  the  north 
coast  of  the  river.  In  proportion  as  their 
fortunes  and  their  popularity  declined,  and 
their  once  notable  position  as  an  old  family 
became  scarce  even  a  memory,  the  pride  of 
the  Lavilettes  increased. 

Madame  Lavilette  made  strong  efforts  to 
secure  her  place,  but  she  was  not  of  an  old 
French  family,  and  this  was  an  easy  and  con- 
venient weapon  against  her.  Besides,  she  had 
no  taste,  and  her  manners  were  much  inferior 
to  those  of  her  husband.  What  impression 
he  managed  to  make  by  virtue  of  a  good  deal 
of  natural  dignity,  she  soon  unmade  by  her 
lack  of  tact.  She  had  no  innate  breeding, 
though  she  was  not  vulgar.  She  lacked  sense 
a  little,  and  sensitiveness  much. 

The  Casimbaults  and  the  wife  of  the  Old 
Seigneur  made  no  friends  of  the  Lavilettes, 
but  the  Old  Seigneur  kept  up  a  formal  habit 
of  calling  twice  a  year  at  the  Lavilettes'  big 
farmhouse,  which,  in  spite  of  all  misfortune, 
grew  bigger  as  the  years  went  on.  Probably, 
in  spite  of  everything,  Monsieur  Lavilette 
and  his  family  would  have  succeeded  better 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes        7 

socially  had  it  not  been  for  one  or  two  un- 
popular lawsuits  brought  by  the  Lavilettes 
against  two  neighbours  (small  farmers),  one  of 
whom  was  clearly  in  the  wrong,  and  the 
other  as  clearly  in  the  right. 

When,  after  years  had  gone  by,  and  the 
children  of  the  Lavilettes  had  grown  up, 
young  Monsieur  Casimbault  came  from  Que- 
bec to  sell  his  property  (it  seemed  to  the 
people  of  Bonaventure  like  selling  his  birth- 
right), he,  as  well  as  they,  were  surprised  to 
find  Monsieur  Lavilette  ready  with  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  to  purchase  the  Manor  Casim- 
bault. Before  the  Parish  had  time  to  take 
breath,  Monsieur  Casimbault  had  handed 
over  the  deed,  pocketed  the  money,  and  leav- 
ing the  ancient  heritage  of  his  family  in  the 
hands  of  the  Lavilettes,  who  forthwith  pre- 
pared to  enter  upon  it,  house  and  land,  had 
hurried  away  to  Quebec  again  without  any 
pangs  of  sentiment. 

It  was  a  little  before  this  time  that  im- 
pertinent peasants  in  the  parish  began  to 
sing: 


"O  when  you  hear  my  little  silver  drum, 
And  when  I  blow  my  little  gold  trompette-a 
You  must  drop  your  work  and  come, 
You  must  leave  your  pride  at  home, 
And  duck  your  heads  before  the  Lavilettc-a  ! " 


8        The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

Gatineau  the  miller,  and  Baby  the  keeper 
of  the  bridge,  gave  their  own  reasons  for  the 
renewed  progress  of  the  Lavilettes.  They 
met  in  conference  at  the  mill  on  the  eve  of 
the  marriage  of  Sophie  Lavilette  to  Magon 
Farcinelle,  farrier,  farmer,  and  member  of 
the  provincial  legislature,  whose  house  lay 
behind  the  piece  of  maple  wood  a  mile  or  so 
to  the  right  of  the  Lavilettes'  farmhouse. 
Farcinelle's  engagement  to  Sophie  had  come 
as  a  surprise  to  all,  for,  so  far  as  people  knew, 
there  had  been  no  courting.  Madame  Lavi- 
lette had  encouraged,  had  even  tempted,  the 
spontaneous  and  jovial  Farcinelle.  Though 
he  had  never  made  a  speech  in  the  House  of 
Assembly,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  why  he  was 
elected,  save  because  everybody  liked  him, 
his  official  position  and  his  popularity  held 
an  important  place  in  Madame  Lavilette's 
long-developed  plans,  which  at  last  were  to 
place  her  in  a  position  equal  to  that  of  the 
Old  Seigneur,  and  launch  her  upon  society 
at  the  Capital. 

They  had  gone  more  than  once  to  the 
Capital,  where  their  family  had  been  well 
known  fifty  years  before,  but  few  doors  had 
been  opened  up  to  them.  They  were  far- 
mers, only  farmers,  and  Madame  Lavi- 
lette made  no  remarkable  impression.  Her 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes        9 

dress  was  florid  and  not  in  excellent  taste, 
and  her  accent  was  rather  crude.  Sophie 
had  gone  to  school  at  the  Convent  in  the 
city,  but  she  had  no  ambition.  She  had  in- 
herited the  stolid  simplicity  of  her  English 
grandfather.  When  her  schooling  was  fin- 
ished, she  let  her  school  friends  drop,  and 
came  back  to  Bonaventure,  rather  stately, 
given  to  reading,  and  little  inclined  to  bother 
her  head  about  anybody. 

Christine,  the  younger  sister,  had  gone  to 
Quebec  also,  but  after  a  week  of  rebellion,  bad 
temper,  and  sharp  speaking,  had  come  home 
again  without  ceremony,  and  refused  to  return. 
Despite  certain  likenesses  to  her  mother,  she  had 
a  deep  if  unintelligible  admiration  for  her  father, 
and  she  never  tired  looking  at  the  picture  of 
her  great-grandfather  in  the  dress  of  a  chev- 
alier of  St.  Louis  —  almost  the  only  thing 
that  had  been  saved  from  the  old  Manor 
House  destroyed  so  long  before  her  time. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  importance  she  attached 
to  her  ancestry  which  made  her  impatient 
with  their  present  position,  and  with  people 
in  the  Parish  who  would  not  altogether 
recognize  their  claims.  It  was  that  which 
made  her  give  a  little  jerky  bow  to  the  miller 
and  the  postmaster  when  she  passed  the 
mill. 


io      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  Come,  dusty-belly,"  said  Baby,  "  what's 
all  this  pom-pom  of  the  Lavilettes?" 

The  miller  pursed  out  his  lips,  contracted 
his  brows,  and  arranged  his  loose  waistcoat 
carefully  on  his  fat  stomach. 

"  Money,"  said  he  oracularly,  as  though  he 
had  solved  the  great  question  of  the  universe. 

"  La  !  La  !  But  other  folks  have  money, 
and  they  step  about  Bonaventure  no  more 
louder  than  a  cat." 

"  Blood,"  added  Gatineau,  corrugating  his 
brows  still  more. 

«  Bosh ! " 

"Both  together  —  money  and  blood,"  re- 
joined the  miller.  Overcome  by  his  exer- 
tions, he  wheezed  so  tremendously  that  great 
billows  of  excitement  raised  his  waistcoat, 
and  a  perspiration  broke  out  upon  his  mealy 
face,  making  a  paste  which  the  sun  through 
the  open  doorway  immediately  began  to  bake 
into  a  crust. 

"  Pah !  the  airs  they  have  always  had, 
those  Lavilettes  !  "  said  Baby.  "  They  will 
not  do  this  because  it  is  not  polite,  they 
will  not  do  that  because  they  are  too  proud. 
They  say  that  once  there  was  a  Baron  in  their 
family.  Who  can  tell  how  long  ago  ?  Per- 
haps when  John  the  Baptist  was  alive.  What 
is  that  ?  Nothing.  There  is  no  Baron  now. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      1 1 

All  at  once  somebody  die  a  year  ago,  and  leave 
them  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  then  —  maisj 
there  is  the  grand  difference!  They  have 
save  and  save  twenty  years  to  pay  their  debts 
and  to  buy  a  Seigneury  like  that  Baron  who 
live  in  the  time  of  John  the  Baptist.  Now 
it  is  to  stand  on  a  ladder  to  speak  to  them  ! 
And  when  all's  done,  they  marry  Ma'm'selle 
Sophie  to  a  farrier,  to  that  Magon  Farcinelle 
—  bah!" 

"  Magon  was  at  the  Jesuits'  College  in 
Quebec,  he  has  ten  thousand  dollars,  he  is 
the  best  judge  of  horses  in  the  province,  and 
he's  a  member  of  Parliament  to  boot,"  said  the 
miller,  puffing.  "  He  is  a  great  man  almost." 

"  He's  no  better  judge  of  horses  than 
M'sieu'  Nic  Lavilette — eh,  that's  a  bully  bad 
scamp,  my  Gatineau  !  "  said  Baby.  "  He's 
the  best  in  the  family.  He  is  a  grand  sport, 
yes.  It's  he  that  fetched  Ma'm'selle  Sophie 
to  the  hitching-post.  Voila,  he  can  wind  them 
all  round  his  finger." 

Baby  looked  round  to  see  if  any  one  was 
near.  Then  he  drew  the  miller's  head  down 
by  pulling  at  his  collar,  and  whispered  in  his 
ear: 

"  He's  hot  foot  for  the  Rebellion,  that's 
one  good  thing,"  he  said.  "  If  he  wipes  out 
the  English  —  " 


12      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  nervously  interrupted 
Gatineau,  for  just  then  two  or  three  loiterers 
of  the  parish  came  shambling  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  mill. 

Baby  stopped  short,  and  as  they  greeted 
the  new-comers  their  attention  was  drawn 
to  the  stage-coach  from  St.  Croix  coming 
over  the  little  hill  near  by. 

"Here's  M'sieu'  Nic  now  —  and  who's 
with  him  ? "  said  Baby,  stepping  about  ner- 
vously in  his  excitement.  "I  knew  there 
was  something  up.  M'sieu'  Nic's  been 
writing  long  letters  from  Montreal." 

Baby's  look  suggested  that  he  knew  more 
than  his  position  as  postmaster  entitled  him 
to  know,  but  the  furtive  droop  at  the  corner 
of  his  eyes  showed  also  that  his  secretiveness 
was  equal  to  his  cowardice. 

On  the  seat  beside  the  driver  of  the  coach 
was  Nicolas  Lavilette,  black-haired,  brown- 
eyed,  athletic,  reckless-looking,  with  a  cast 
in  his  left  eye,  which  gave  him  a  look  of 
drollery,  in  keeping  with  his  buoyant,  daring 
nature.  Beside  him  was  a  figure  much  more 
noticeable  and  unusual. 

Lean,  dark-featured,  with  keen-glancing 
eyes,  and  a  body  with  a  faculty  for  finding 
corners  of  ease ;  waving  hair  streaked  with 
gray,  black  moustache,  and  a  hectic  flush  on 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      13 

the  cheeks,  lending  to  the  world-wise  face 
a  wistful  look,  —  that,  with  near  six  feet  of 
height,  was  the  picture  of  his  friend. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  miller,  with 
bulging  eyes. 

"  An  English  nobleman  !  "  answered  Baby. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Gatineau. 

"  How  do  I  know  you  are  a  fat,  cheating 
miller  ?  "  replied  the  postmaster,  with  cun- 
ning care  and  a  touch  of  malice.  Malice 
was  the  only  power  Baby  knew. 


Chapter  II 

IN  the  matter  of  power,  Baby,  the 
inquisitive  postmaster  and  keeper  of 
the  bridge,  was  unlike  the  new  arrival 
in  Bonaventure.  The  abilities  of  the 
Honourable  Tom  Ferrol  lay  in  a  splendid 
plausibility,  a  spontaneous  "blarney."  He 
could  no  more  help  being  spendthrift  of  his 
affections  and  his  morals  than  of  his  money, 
and  many  a  time  he  had  wished  that  his 
money  was  as  inexhaustible  as  his  emotions. 
In  point  of  morals,  any  of  the  Lavilettes 
presented  a  finer  average  than  their  new 
guest  who  had  come  to  give  their  feasting 
distinction  and  what  more,  time  was  to  show. 
Indeed,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Ferrol  had  no  morals 
to  speak  of,  and  very  little  honour.  He  was 
the  penniless  son  of  an  Irish  peer  who  was 
himself  well-nigh  penniless ;  and  he  and  his 
sister,  whose  path  of  life  at  home  was  not 
easy  after  her  marriageable  years  had  passed, 
drew  from  the  Consols  the  small  sum  of 
money  their  mother  had  left  them,  and  sailed 
away  for  New  York. 

14 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      15 

Six  months  of  life  there,  with  varying 
fortune,  in  which  a  well-to-do  girl  in  society 
gave  him  a  promise  of  marriage,  and  then 
Ferrol  found  himself  jilted  for  a  baronet  who 
owned  a  cable  company  and  could  give  the 
ambitious  lady  a  title.  In  his  sick  heart  he 
had  spoken  profanely  of  the  future  Lady  of 
Title,  had  bade  her  good-bye  with  a  smile 
and  an  agreeable  piece  of  wit,  and  had  gone 
home  to  his  flat,  and  sobbed  like  a  school- 
boy ;  for  as  much  as  he  could  love  anybody 
he  loved  this  girl.  He  and  the  faithful  sister 
vanished  from  New  York,  and  appeared  in 

Buebec,  where  they  were  made  welcome  at 
overnment  House,  at  the  Citadel,  and 
among  all  who  cared  to  know  the  weight 
of  an  inherited  title.  For  a  time,  the  fact 
that  he  had  little  or  no  money  did  not  tem- 
per their  hospitality  with  niggardliness  or 
caution.  But  their  cheery  and  witty  guest 
began  to  take  more  wine  than  was  good  for 
him  or  comfortable  for  others,  his  bills  at 
the  clubs  remained  unpaid,  his  landlord  har- 
ried him,  his  tailors  pursued  him;  and  then 
he  borrowed  cheerfully  and  well. 

However,  there  came  an  end  to  this,  and  to 
the  acceptance  of  his  I  O  U'S.  Following 
the  instincts  of  his  Irish  ancestors,  he  then 
leagued  with  a  professional  smuggler,  and 


1 6      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

began  to  deal  in  contraband  liquors  and 
cigars.  But  before  this  occurred,  he  had 
sent  his  sister  to  a  little  secluded  town,  where 
she  should  be  well  out  of  earshot  of  his  do- 
ings or  possible  troubles.  He  would  have 
shielded  her  from  harm  at  the  cost  of  his  life. 
His  loyalty  to  her  was  only  limited  by  the 
irresponsibility  of  his  nature  and  a  certain 
incapacity  to  see  the  difference  between  radi- 
cal right  and  radical  wrong.  His  honour 
was  a  matter  of  tradition,  such  as  it  was,  and 
in  all  else  he  had  the  inherent  invalidity  of 
some  of  his  distant  forbears.  For  a  time  all 
went  well,  then  discovery  came,  and  only  the 
kind  intriguing  of  as  good  friends  as  any  man 
deserved  prevented  his  arrest  and  punishment. 
But  it  all  got  whispered  about,  and  while 
some  ladies  saw  a  touch  of  romance  in  doing 
professionally  and  wholesale  what  they  them- 
selves did  in  an  amateurish  way  with  laces, 
gloves,  and  so  on,  men  viewed  the  matter 
more  seriously  and  advised  Ferrol  to  leave 
Quebec. 

Since  that  time  he  had  lived  by  his  wits  — 
and  pleasing,  dangerous  wits  they  were  —  at 
Montreal  and  elsewhere.  But  fatal  ill-luck 
pursued  him.  Presently,  a  cold  settled  on  his 
lungs.  In  the  dead  of  winter,  after  sending 
what  money  he  had  to  his  sister,  he  had  lived 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      17 

a  week  or  more  in  a  room  with  no  fire  and 
little  food.  As  time  went  on,  the  cold  got  no 
better.  After  sundry  vicissitudes  and  twists 
of  fortune,  he  met  Nicolas  Lavilette  at  a 
horse-race,  and  a  friendship  was  struck  up. 
He  frankly  and  gladly  accepted  an  invitation 
to  attend  the  wedding  of  Sophie  Lavilette, 
and  to  make  a  visit  at  the  farm  and  at 
the  Manor  Casimbault  afterwards.  Nicolas 
spoke  lightly  of  the  Manor  Casimbault,  yet 
he  had  pride  in  it  also ;  for  scamp  as  he  was, 
and  indifferent  to  anything  like  personal  dig- 
nity or  self-respect,  he  admired  his  father  and 
had  a  natural  if  good-natured  arrogance  akin 
to  Christine's  self-will. 

It  meant  to  Ferrol  freedom  from  poverty, 
misery,  and  financial  subterfuge  for  a  moment ; 
and  he  could  be  quiet  —  for,  as  he  said,  "this 
confounded  cold  took  the  iron  out  of  his 
blood."  Like  all  people  stricken  with  this 
disease,  he  never  called  it  anything  but  a  cold. 
All  those  illusions  which  accompany  the 
malady  were  his.  He  would  always  be  bet- 
ter "  to-morrow."  He  told  the  two  or  three 
friends  who  came  from  their  beds  in  the 
early  morning  to  see  him  safely  off  from 
Montreal  to  Bonaventure  that  he  would  be 
all  right  as  soon  as  he  got  out  into  the  country ; 
that  he  sat  up  too  late  in  the  city ;  and  that 


1 8      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

he  had  just  got  a  new  prescription  which  had 
cured  a  dozen  people  'with  colds  and  hem- 
orrhages.' His  was  only  a  cold — just  a  cold; 
that  was  all.  He  was  a  bit  weak  sometimes, 
and  what  he  needed  was  something  to  pull  up 
his  strength.  The  country  would  do  this  — 
plenty  of  fresh  air,  riding,  walking,  and  that 
sort  of  thing. 

He  had  left  Montreal  behind  in  gay  spirits, 
and  he  continued  gay  for  several  hours, 
holding  himself  erect  in  the  seat,  noting  the 
landscape,  telling  stories;  but  he  stumbled 
with  weakness  as  they  got  out  of  the  coach 
for  luncheon.  He  drank  three  full  portions 
of  whiskey  at  table,  and  ate  nothing.  The 
silent  landlady  who  waited  on  them  at  last 
brought  a  huge  bowl  of  milk,  and  set  it 
before  him  without  a  word.  A  flush  passed 
swiftly  across  his  face  and  faded  away,  as, 
with  quick  sensitiveness,  he  glanced  at  Nico- 
las and  another  passenger,  a  fat  priest. 
They  took  no  notice,  and,  reassured,  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  that  the  landlady  knew  exactly 
what  he  wanted.  Lifting  the  dish,  he 
drained  it  at  a  gasp,  though  the  milk  almost 
choked  him,  and,  to  the  apprehension  of  his 
hostess,  set  the  bowl  spinning  on  the  table 
like  a  top.  Another  illusion  of  the  disease 
was  his :  that  he  succeeded  perfectly  in  de- 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      19 

ceiving  everybody  round  him  with  his  pathetic 
make-believe.  And  unlike  most  deceivers, 
he  deceived  himself  as  well.  The  two 
actions,  inconsistent  as  they  were,  were 
reconciled  in  him,  as  in  all  the  race  of 
consumptives,  by  some  strange  chemistry 
of  the  mind  and  spirit.  He  was  on  the 
broad,  undiverging  highway  to  death;  yet, 
with  every  final  token  about  him  that  he 
was  in  the  enemy's  country,  surrounded, 
trapped,  soon  to  be  passed  unceremoniously 
inside  the  Citadel  at  the  end  of  the  avenue, 
he  kept  signalling  back  to  old  friends  that 
all  was  well,  and  he  told  himself  that  to- 
morrow the  King  should  have  his  own 
again :  "  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow ! " 

He  was  not  very  thin  in  body,  his  face 
was  full,  and  at  times  his  eyes  were  singu- 
larly and  fascinatingly  bright.  He  had 
colour  —  that  hectic  flush  which  on  his 
cheek  was  almost  beautiful.  One  would 
have  turned  twice  to  see.  The  quantities 
of  spirits  that  he  drank  (he  ate  little)  would 
have  killed  a  half-dozen  healthy  men.  To 
him  it  was  food,  taken  up,  absorbed  by  the 
fever  of  his  disease,  giving  him  a  real  not  a 
fictitious  strength,  and  so  it  would  continue 
to  do  till  some  artery  burst  and  choked  him, 


2O      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

or  else  by  some  miracle  of  air  and  climate  the 
hole  in  his  lung  healed  up  again  ;  which  he, 
in  his  elation,  believed  would  be  "to-morrow." 
Perhaps  the  air,  the  food,  and  life  of  Bona- 
venture  were  the  one  medicine  he  needed ! 

But  in  the  moment  Nicolas  said  to  him 
that  Bonaventure  was  just  over  the  hill,  that 
they  would  be  able  to  see  it  now,  he  had  a 
sudden  feeling  of  depression.  He  felt  as 
if  he  would  give  anything  to  turn  back. 
A  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  forehead  and 
his  cheek.  His  eyes  had  a  wavering,  anxious 
look.  Some  of  that  old  sanity  of  the  once 
healthy  man  was  making  a  last  effort  for 
supremacy,  breaking  in  upon  illusive  hopes 
and  irresponsible  deceptions. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Presently, 
from  the  top  of  the  hill,  they  looked  down 
upon  the  long  line  of  little  homes  lying  along 
the  banks  of  the  river  like  peaceful  watch- 
men in  a  pleasant  land,  with  corn  and  wine 
and  oil  at  hand.  The  tall  cross  on  the  spire 
of  the  Parish  Church  was  itself  a  message  of 
hope.  He  did  not  define  it  so,  but  the 
impression  vaguely,  perhaps  superstitiously, 
possessed  him.  It  was  this  vague  influence, 
perhaps  (for  he  was  not  a  Catholic),  which 
made  him  involuntarily  lift  his  hat,  as  did 
Nicolas,  when  they  passed  a  Calvary  ;  which 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      21 

induced  him,  likewise,  to  make  the  sacred 
gesture,  when  they  met  a  priest,  with  an 
acolyte  and  swinging  censer,  hurrying  silently 
on  to  the  home  of  some  dying  parishioner. 
The  sensations  were  different  from  anything 
he  had  known.  He  had  been  used  to  the 
Catholic  religion  in  Ireland,  he  had  seen  it 
in  France,  Spain,  Italy,  and  elsewhere;  but 
here  was  something  essentially  primitive, 
archaically  touching  and  convincing. 

His  spirits  came  back  with  a  rush;  he 
had  a  splendid  feeling  of  exaltation.  He 
was  not  religious,  never  could  be,  but  he  felt 
religious ;  he  was  ill,  but  he  felt  that  he  was 
on  the  open  highway  to  health ;  he  was  dis- 
honest, but  he  felt  an  honest  man ;  he  was 
the  son  of  a  peer,  but  he  felt  himself  brother 
to  the  fat  miller  by  the  roadway,  to  Baby 
the  postmaster  and  keeper  of  the  bridge,  to 
the  Regimental  Surgeon,  who  stood  in  his 
doorway,  pulling  at  his  moustache  and  blow- 
ing clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  into  the  air. 

Shangois  the  Notary  met  his  eye  as  they 
dashed  on.  A  new  sensation  —  not  a  change 
in  the  elation  he  felt,  but  an  instant's  in- 
terruption—  came  to  him.  He  asked  who 
Shangois  was,  and  Nicolas  told  him. 

"  A  notary,  eh  ?  "  he  remarked  gaily. 
"Well,  why  does  he  disguise  himself?  He 


22      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

looks  like  a  rag-picker,  and  has  the  eye  of 
Solomon  and  the  devil  in  one.  He  ought  to 
be  in  some  Star  Chamber —  Palmerston  could 
make  use  of  him." 

"  Oh,  he's  kept  busy  enough  with  secrets 
here  !  "  was  Nicolas'  laughing  reply. 

"  It's  only  a  difference  of  size  in  the 
secrets  anyhow,"  was  Ferrol's  response  in 
the  same  vein  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  they 
had  passed  the  Seigneury,  and  were  drawn 
up  before  the  great  farmhouse. 

Its  appearance  was  rather  comfortable  and 
commodious  than  impressive,  but  it  had  the 
air  of  home  and  undepreciating  use.  There 
was  one  beautiful  clump  of  hollyhocks  and 
sunflowers  in  the  front  garden ;  a  corner  of 
the  main  building  was  covered  with  morning- 
glories;  a  fence  to  the  left  was  overgrown 
with  grapevines,  making  it  look  like  a  hedge; 
a  huge  pear  tree  occupied  a  spot  opposite  to 
the  pretty  copse  of  sunflowers  and  holly- 
hocks ;  and  the  rest  of  the  garden  was  green, 
save  just  round  a  little  "  summer  house  "  in 
the  corner,  with  its  back  to  the  road,  where 
Sophie  had  set  a  palisade  of  the  goldenrod 
flower.  Just  beside  the  front  door  was  a 
bush  of  purple  lilac ;  and  over  the  door  in 
copper  was  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  Lavi- 
lettes, placed  there  at  Madame's  insistence, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      23 

in  spite  of  the  dying  wish  of  Lavilette's 
father,  a  feeble,  babbling  old  gentleman  in 
knee-breeches,  stock,  and  swallow-tailed  coat, 
who,  broken  down  by  misfortune,  age,  and 
loneliness,  had  gathered  himself  together  for 
one  last  effort  for  becomingness  against  his 
daughter-in-law's  false  tastes — ^and  had  died 
the  day  after.  He  was  spared  the  indignity 
of  the  coat-of-arms  on  the  tombstone  only 
by  the  fierce  opposition  of  Louis  Lavilette, 
who  upon  this  point  had  his  first  quarrel  with 
his  wife. 

Ferrol  saw  no  particular  details  in  his  first 
view  of  the  house.  The  picture  was  satis- 
fying to  a  tired  man  —  comfort,  quiet,  the 
bread  of  idleness  to  eat,  and  welcome  admir- 
ing faces  round  him.  Monsieur  Lavilette 
stood  in  the  doorway,  and  behind  him,  at 
a  carefully  disposed  distance,  was  Madame, 
rather  more  emphatically  dressed  than  neces- 
sary. As  he  shook  hands  genially  with  Ma- 
dame he  saw  Sophie  and  Christine  in  the 
doorway  of  the  parlour.  His  spirits  took 
another  leap.  His  inexhaustible  emotions 
were  out  upon  cheerful  parade  at  once. 

The  Lavilettes  immediately  became  pen- 
sioners of  his  affections.  The  first  hour  of 
his  coming  he  himself  did  not  know  which 
sister  his  ample  heart  was  spending  itself  on 


24      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

most  —  Sophie,  with  her  English  face  and 
slow,  docile,  well-bred  manner,  or  Christine, 
dark,  petite,  impertinent,  gay-hearted,  wilful, 
unsparing  of  her  tongue  for  others  —  or  for 
herself.  Though  Christine's  lips  and  cheeks 
glowed,  and  her  eyes  had  wonderful  warm 
lights,  incredulity  was  constantly  signalled 
from  both  eyes  and  lips.  She  was  a  fine 
daring  little  animal,  with  as  great  a  talent 
for  untruth  as  truth,  though  to  this  point  in 
her  life  truth  had  been  more  with  her.  Her 
temptations  had  been  few. 


Chapter  III 

MR.  FERROL    seemed    honestly    to 
like    the    old    farmhouse    with    its 
low  ceilings,  thick  walls,  big  beams, 
and  wide  chimneys,  and  he  showed 
himself  perfectly  at  home.      He  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  sit  for  an  hour  in  the  kitchen, 
beside  the  great  fireplace.     He  enjoyed  this 
part  of  his  first  appearance  greatly  —  it  was 
like  nothing  he  had  tasted  since  he  used,  as 
a  boy,  to  visit  the  huntsman's  home  on  his 
father's  estate,  and  gossip  and  smoke  in  that 
Galway  chimney-corner.     It  was  only  when 
he  had  to  face  the  too  impressive  adoration 
of  Madame  Lavilette  that  his  comfort  got 
a  twist. 

He  made  easy  headway  into  the  affections 
of  his  hostess ;  for,  beside  all  other  predilec- 
tions, she  had  the  middle-class  awe  of  a  title. 
It  rather  surprised  her  that  he  seemed  almost 
unaware  of  his  title.  He  was  quite  without 
self-consciousness,  although  there  was  that 
little  touch  of  irresponsibility  in  him  which 
betrayed  a  readiness  to  sell  his  dignity  for  a 

25 


26      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

small  compensation.  With  a  certain  genial 
capacity  for  universal  u  blarney,"  he  was  at 
first  as  impressive  with  Sophie  as  he  was 
attentive  to  Christine.  It  was  quite  natural 
that  presently  Madame  Lavilette  should  see 
possibilities  beyond  all  her  past  imaginations. 
It  would  surely  advance  her  ambitions  to 
have  him  here  for  Sophie's  wedding;  but 
even  as  she  thought  that,  she  had  twinges 
of  disappointment,  because  she  had  promised 
Farcinelle  to  have  the  wedding  as  simple  and 
bourgeois  as  possible. 

Farcinelle  did  not  share  the  social  ambi- 
tions of  the  Lavilettes.  He  liked  his  polit- 
ical popularity,  and  he  was  only  concerned 
for  that.  He  had  that  touch  of  shrewdness 
to  save  him  from  fatuity  where  the  Lavilettes 
were  concerned.  He  was  determined  to  as- 
sociate with  the  ceremony  all  the  primitive 
customs  of  the  country.  He  had  come  of 
a  race  of  simple  farmers,  and  he  was  con- 
sistent enough  to  attempt  to  live  up  to  the 
traditions  of  his  people.  He  was  entirely  too 
good-natured  to  take  exception  to  Ferrol's 
easy-going  admiration  of  Sophie. 

Ferrol  spoke  excellent  French,  and  soon 
found  points  of  pleasant  contact  with  Mon- 
sieur Lavilette,  who,  despite  the  fact  that  he 
had  coarsened  as  the  years  went  on,  had  still 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      27 

upon  him  the  touch  of  family  tradition  which 
may  become  either  offensive  pride  or  defen- 
sive self-respect.  With  the  Cure,  Ferrol  was 
not  quite  so  successful.  The  ascetic,  pru- 
dent priest,  with  that  instinctive  long-sighted 
accuracy  which  belongs  to  the  narrow-minded, 
scented  difficulty.  He  disliked  the  English 
exceedingly,  and  all  Irishmen  were  English- 
men to  him.  He  resisted  Ferrol's  "  blarney." 
His  thin  lips  tightened,  his  narrow  forehead 
seemed  to  grow  narrower,  and  his  very  cas- 
sock appeared  to  tighten  austerely  on  his  figure 
as  he  talked  to  the  refugee  of  misfortune. 

When  the  most  pardonable  of  gossips,  the 
Regimental  Surgeon,  asked  him  on  his  way 
home  what  he  thought  of  Ferrol,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  tightened  his  lips  again,  and  said : 

"A  polite,  designing  heretic." 

The  Regimental  Surgeon,  though  a  French- 
man, had  once  belonged  to  a  British  Battery 
of  Artillery  stationed  at  Quebec,  and  there 
he  had  acquired  an  admiration  for  the  Eng- 
lish which  betrayed  itself  in  his  curious 
attempts  to  imitate  Anglo-Saxon  bluffness 
and  blunt  spontaneity.  When  the  Cure 
had  gone,  he  flung  back  his  shoulders  with 
a  laugh,  as  he  had  seen  the  Major-General 
do  at  the  Officers'  mess  at  the  Citadel,  and 
said  in  English : 


28      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  Heretics  are  damn*  funny ;  I  will  go 
and  call.  I  have  also  some  Irish  Whiskey. 
He  will  like  that;  and  pipes  —  pipes,  plenty 
of  them ! " 

The  pipe  he  was  smoking  at  the  moment 
had  been  given  to  him  by  the  Major-General, 
and  he  polished  the  silver  ferrule,  with  its 
honourable  inscription,  every  morning  of  his 
life. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after 
Ferrol  came,  he  was  carried  off  to  the  Manor 
Casimbault  to  see  the  painful  alterations 
which  were  being  made  there  under  the 
direction  of  Madame  Lavilette.  Sophie, 
who  had  a  good  deal  of  natural  taste,  had 
in  the  old  days  fought  against  her  mother's 
incongruous  ideas,  and  once  when  the  re- 
habilitation of  the  Manor  Casimbault  came 
up  she  had  made  a  protest,  but  it  was  her  last 
effort,  and  it  was  unavailing.  The  Manor 
Casimbault  was  destined  to  be  an  example 
of  ancient  dignity  and  modern  bad  taste. 
Alterations  were  going  on  as  Madame  Lavi- 
lette, Ferrol,  and  Christine  entered. 

For  some  time  Ferrol  watched  the  pro- 
ceedings with  a  casual  eye,  but  presently  he 
begged  his  hostess  that  she  would  leave  the 
tall  old  oak  clock  where  it  was  in  the  big  hall, 
and  that  the  new  platter-faced  office  clock 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettep      29 

intended  for  its  substitute  be  hung  up  in  the 
kitchen.  He  eyed  the  well-scraped  over- 
mantel askance,  and  saw,  with  scarcely  con- 
cealed astonishment,  a  fine  old  carved  wooden 
seat  carried  out  of  doors  to  make  room  for  an 
American  rocking-chair.  He  turned  his  head 
away  almost  in  anger  when  he  saw  that  the 
beautiful  brown  wainscoting  was  being  painted 
an  ultramarine  blue.  His  partly  disguised  as- 
tonishment and  dissent  were  not  lost  upon  the 
crude  but  clever  Christine.  A  new  sense  was 
opened  up  in  her,  and  she  felt  somehow  that 
the  ultramarine  blue  was  not  right,  that  the 
overmantel  had  been  spoiled,  that  the  new 
walnut  table  was  too  noticeable,  and  that  the 
American  rocking-chair  looked  very  common. 
Also  she  felt  that  the  plush  with  which  her 
mother  and  the  dressmaker  at  St.  Croix  had 
decorated  her  bodice  was  not  the  thing. 
Presently  this  made  her  angry. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  she  asked,  a  little 
maliciously,  pointing  to  the  rocking-chair  in 
the  salon. 

"I  prefer  standing — with  you,"  he  an- 
swered, eying  the  chair  with  a  sly  twinkle. 

"  No,  that  isn't  it,"  she  rejoined  sharply. 
"  You  don't  like  the  chair."  Then  suddenly 
breaking  into  English :  "  Ah,  I  know,  I 
know,  you  can't  fool  me !  I  see  de  leetle 


30      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

look  in  your  eye ;  and  you  not  like  the 
paint,  and  you'd  pitch  that  painter  Alcide 
out  into  the  snow  if  it  is  your  house." 

"I  wouldn't,  really,"  he  answered  —  he 
coughed  a  little  —  "  Alcide  is  doing  his  work 
very  well.  Couldn't  you  give  me  a  coat  of 
blue  paint,  too  ?  " 

The  piquant,  intelligent,  fiery  peasant  face 
interested  him :  it  had  warmth,  natural  life, 
and  passion. 

She  flushed  and  stamped  her  foot,  while  he 
laughed  heartily ;  and  she  was  about  to  say 
something  dangerous,  when  the  laugh  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  he  began  coughing.  The 
paroxysm  increased  until  he  strained  and 
caught  at  his  breast  with  his  hand.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  chest  and  throat  must  burst. 

She  instantly  changed.  The  flush  of  anger 
passed  from  her  face,  and  something  else  came 
into  it.  She  caught  his  hand. 

"  Oh !  what  can  I  do,  what  can  I  do  to 
help  you  ?  "  she  asked  pitifully.  "  I  did  not 
know  you  were  so  ill.  Tell  me,  what  can 
I  do?" 

He  made  a  gentle  protesting  motion  of  his 
free  arm,  —  he  could  not  speak  yet,  —  while 
she  held  and  clasped  his  other  hand. 

"  It's  the  worst  I  ever  had,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment  —  "  the  very  worst !  " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      31 

He  sat  down,  and  again  he  had  a  fit  of 
coughing,  and  the  sweat  started  out  violently 
upon  his  forehead  and  cheek.  When  his 
head  at  last  lay  back  against  the  chair,  the 
paroxysm  over,  a  little  spot  of  blood  showed 
and  spread  upon  his  white  lips.  With  a 
pained,  shuddering  little  gasp,  she  caught  her 
handkerchief  from  her  bosom,  and,  running 
one  hand  round  his  shoulder,  quickly  and 
gently  caught  away  the  spot  of  blood,  and 
crumpled  the  handkerchief  in  her  hand  to 
hide  it  from  him. 

"  Oh !  poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  !  "  she 
said.  "  Oh  !  poor  fellow !  " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  that  look  which  is  not  the  love 
of  a  woman  for  a  man,  or  of  a  lover  for  a 
lover;  but  that  latent  spirit  of  care  and 
motherhood  which  is  in  every  woman  who 
is  more  woman  than  man.  For  there  are 
women  who  are  more  men  than  women. 

For  himself,  a  new  fact  struck  home  in 
him.  For  the  first  time  since  his  illness  he 
felt  that  he  was  doomed.  That  little  spot  of 
blood  in  the  crumpled  handkerchief  which 
had  flashed  past  his  eye  was  the  fatal  message 
he  had  sought  to  elude  for  months  past.  A 
hopeless  and  ironical  misery  shot  through 
him.  But  he  had  humour  too,  and,  with  the 


32      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

taste  of  the  warm  red  drop  in  his  mouth  still, 
his  tongue  touched  his  lips  swiftly,  and  one 
hand  grasping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  the 
fingers  of  the  other  dropping  on  the  back  of 
her  hand  lightly,  he  said  with  a  sad  sort  of 
irony  : 

"'Dead  for  a  ducat!'" 

When  he  saw  the  look  of  horror  in  her 
face,  his  eyes  lifted  almost  gaily  to  hers,  as 
he  continued : 

"  A  little  brandy  if  you  can  get  it,  made- 
moiselle." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I'll  get  some  for  you  —  some 
whiskey  ! "  she  said,  with  frightened,  terri- 
bly eager  eyes.  "  Alcide  always  has  some. 
Don't  stir;  sit  just  where  you  are  !  " 

She  ran  out  of  the  room  swiftly,  a  light- 
footed,  warm-spirited,  dramatic  little  body, 
set  off  so  garishly  in  the  bodice  with 
the  plush  trimming ;  but  she  had  a  big 
heart,  and  the  man  knew  it.  It  was  the 
big-heartedness  which  was  the  touch  of  the 
man  in  her  that  made  her  companionable 
to  him. 

He  said  to  himself  when  she  left  him  : 

"What  cursed  luck!"  And  after  a  pause 
he  added,  "  Good-hearted  little  thing,  how 
sorry  she  looked  !  " 

Then  he  settled  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      33 

fixed  upon  her,  as  she  entered  the  room, 
eager,  pale,  and  solicitous. 

A  half-hour  later  they  two  were  on  their 
way  to  the  farmhouse,  the  work  of  despoil- 
ing going  on  in  the  Manor  behind  them. 
Ferrol  walked  with  an  easy,  half-languid 
step,  even  a  gay  sort  of  courage  in  his  bear- 
ing. The  liquor  he  had  drunk  brought  the 
colour  to  his  lips.  They  were  now  hot  and 
red,  and  his  eyes  had  a  singular  feverish 
brilliancy,  in  keeping  with  the  hectic  flush 
on  his  cheek.  He  had  dismissed  the  subject 
of  his  illness  almost  immediately,  and  Chris- 
tine's adaptable  nature  had  instantly  responded 
to  his  mood. 

He  asked  her  questions  about  the  country- 
side, of  their  neighbours,  of  the  way  they 
lived ;  all  in  an  easy,  unintrusive  way, 
winning  her  confidence  and  provoking  her 
candour. 

Two  or  three  times,  however,  her  face 
suddenly  flushed  with  the  memory  of  the 
scene  in  the  Manor,  and  her  first  real  awak- 
ening to  her  social  insufficiency,  for  she,  of 
all  the  family,  had  been  least  careful  to  see 
herself  as  others  might  see  her.  She  was 
vain,  she  was  somewhat  of  a  barbarian  ;  she 
loved  nobody  and  nobody's  opinion  as  she 
loved  herself  and  her  own  opinion.  Though 


34      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

if  any  people  really  cared  for  her,  and  she 
for  them,  they  were  the  Regimental  Surgeon 
and  Shangois  the  Notary. 

Once,  as  they  walked  on,  she  turned  and 
looked  back  at  the  Manor  House,  but  only 
for  an  instant.  He  caught  the  glance,  and 
said : 

"  You'll  like  to  live  there,  won't  you  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  almost 
sharply.  "  But  if  the  Casimbaults  liked  it, 
I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  !  " 

There  was  a  challenge  in  her  voice,  defi- 
ance in  the  little  toss  of  her  head.  He  liked 
her  spirit  in  spite  of  the  vanity.  Her  vanity 
did  not  concern  him  greatly ;  for,  after  all, 
what  was  he  doing  here  ?  Merely  filling  in 
dark  days,  living  a  sober-coloured  game 
out.  He  had  one  solitary  hundred  dollars 
—  no  more;  and  half  of  that  he  had  bor- 
rowed, and  half  of  it  he  got  from  selling  his 
shooting-traps  and  his  hunting-watch.  He 
might  worry  along  on  that  till  the  end  of  the 
game,  but  he  had  no  money  to  send  his  sister 
in  that  secluded  village  two  hundred  miles 
away.  She  had  never  known  how  really 
poor  he  was ;  and  she  had  lived  in  her 
simple  way  without  want,  and  without  any 
unusual  anxiety,  save  for  his  health.  More 
than  once  he  had  practically  starved  himself 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      35 

to  send  money  to  her.  Perhaps  also  he 
would  have  starved  others  for  the  same 
purpose. 

"  I'll  warrant  the  Casimbaults  never  en- 
joyed the  Manor  as  much  as  I've  done  that 
big  kitchen  in  your  house,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
can't  see  why  you  want  to  leave  it.  Don't 
you  feel  sorry  you  are  going  to  quit  the  old 
place  ?  Hadn't  you  got  your  own  little  spots 
there,  and  made  friends  with  them?  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  like  to  sit  down  by  the  side 
of  your  big,  warm  chimney-corner  till  the 
wind  came  along  that  blows  out  the  candle." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  l  blowing  out  the 
candle '  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  it  means  shut  up 
shop,  drop  the  curtain,  or  anything  you  like. 
It  means  XT  Z  and  the  grand  finale  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  with  a  little  start,  as  the 
thing  dawned  upon  her.  "  Don't  speak  like 
that ;  you're  not  going  to  die." 

"Give  me  your  handkerchief!"  he  an- 
swered. "Give  it  to  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  — 
how  soon." 

She  jammed  her  hand  down  in  her  pocket. 
"  No,  I  won't !  "  she  answered.  "  I  won't !  " 

She  never  did,  and  he  liked  her  none  the 
less  for  that. 

Somehow  up  to  this  time  he  had  always 


3  6      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

thought  that  he  would  get  well,  and  to- 
morrow he  would  probably  think  so  again ; 
but  just  for  the  moment  he  felt  the  real 
truth. 

Presently  she  said  (they  spoke  in  French) : 

"Why  is  it  you  like  our  old  kitchen  so 
much  ?  It  isn't  nearly  as  nice  as  the  parlour." 

"  Well,  it's  a  place  to  live  in  anyhow,  and 
1  fancy  you  all  feel  more  at  home  there  than 
anywhere  else." 

"I  feel  just  as  much  at  home  in  the 
parlour  as  there,"  she  retorted. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  think  not.  The  room  one 
lives  in  the  most  is  the  room  for  any  one's 
money." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  puzzled  way.  Too 
many  sensations  were  being  born  in  her  all 
at  once,  but  she  did  recognize  that  he  was 
not  trying  to  subtract  anything  from  the 
pomp  of  the  Lavilettes. 

He  belonged  to  a  world  that  she  did  not 
know  —  and  yet  he  was  so  perfectly  at 
home  with  her,  so  idly  easy-going. 

"  Did  you  ever  live  in  a  castle  ? "  she 
asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  dry  little  laugh. 
Then,  after  a  moment,  with  the  half- 
abstracted  manner  of  a  man  who  is  recalling 
a  long-forgotten  scene,  he  added :  "  I  lived 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      37 

in  the  North  Tower,  looking  out  on  Far- 
calladen  Moor.  When  I  wasn't  riding  to 
the  hounds  myself  I  could  see  them  crossing 
to  or  from  the  meet.  The  River  Stavely 
ran  between ;  and  just  under  the  window  of 
the  North  Tower  is  the  prettiest  copse  you 
ever  saw.  That  was  from  one  side  of  the 
Tower.  From  the  other  side  you  looked 
into  the  courtyard.  As  a  boy,  I  liked  the 
courtyard  just  as  well  as  the  Moor;  for 
the  pigeons,  the  sparrows,  the  horses,  and  the 
dogs  were  all  there.  As  a  man,  I  liked 
the  Moor  better.  Well,  I  had  jolly  good 
times  in  Castle  Stavely  —  once  upon  a 
time." 

"  Yet  you  like  our  kitchen ! "  she  again 
urged,  in  a  maze  of  wonderment. 

" 1  like  everything  here,"  he  answered ; 
"  everything  —  everything,  you  understand  !  " 
he  said,  looking  meaningly  into  her  eyes. 

"Then  you'll  like  the  wedding,  Sophie's 
wedding  ?  "  she  answered,  with  a  little  con- 
fusion. 

A  half-hour  later,  he  said  the  same  thing 
to  Sophie,  with  the  same  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  only  the  general  purpose,  in  either  case, 
of  being  on  easy  terms  with  them. 


Chapter    IV 

THE  day  of  the  wedding  there  was  a 
gay  procession  through  the  Parish,  of 
the  friends  and  constituents  of  Magon 
Farcinelle.     When  they  came  to  his 
home,  he  joined  them,  and  marched  at  the 
head   of  the   procession  (as  had  done  many 
a  forefather  of  his),  with  ribbons  on  his  hat 
and  others  at  his  buttonhole.     After  stopping 
for  exchange  of  courtesies  at  several  houses 
in   the   Parish,  the   procession   came  to  the 
homestead  of  the  Lavilettes,  and  the  crowd 
were  now  enough  excited  to  forget  the  pride 
which  had  repelled   and   offended   them   for 
many  years. 

Monsieur  Lavilette  made  a  polite  speech, 
sending  round  cider  and  "  white  wine "  (as 
native  whiskey  was  called)  when  he  had 
finished.  Later,  Nicolas  furnished  some 
good  brandy,  and  Farcinelle  sent  more.  A 
good  number  of  people  had  come  out  of 
curiosity  to  see  what  manner  of  man  the 
Englishman  was,  well-prepared  to  resent  his 
overbearing  snobbishness  (they  were  inclined 

38 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      39 

to  believe  every  Englishman  snobbish).  But 
Ferrol  was  so  entirely  affable,  and  he  drank 
so^  freely  with  every  one  that  came  to  say 
1 A  votre  santJ,  M'sieu'  le  baron/  and  kept 
such  a  steady  head  in  spite  of  all  those 
quantities  of  white  wine,  brandy,  and  cider, 
that  they  were  almost  ready  to  carry  him  on 
their  shoulders ;  though,  with  their  racial 
prejudice,  they  would  probably  have  repented 
of  that  indiscretion  on  the  morrow. 

Presently,  dancing  began  in  a  paddock  just 
across  the  road  from  the  house,  and  when 
Madame  Lavilette  saw  that  Mr.  Ferrol  gave 
such  undisguised  countenance  to  the  prim- 
•  itive  rejoicings,  she  encouraged  the  revellers 
and  enlarged  her  hospitality,  sending  down 
hampers  of  eatables.  She  preened  with 
pleasure  when  she  saw  Ferrol  walking  up 
and  down  in  very  confidential  conversation 
with  Christine.  If  she  had  been  really  ob- 
servant, she  would  have  seen  that  Ferrol's 
tendency  was  towards  an  appearance  of  con- 
fidential friendliness  with  almost  everybody. 
Great  ideas  had  entered  Madame's  head,  but 
they  were  vaguely  defining  themselves  in 
Christine's  mind  also.  Where  might  not 
this  friendship  with  Ferrol  lead  her  ? 

Something   occurred   in   the  midst  of  the 
dancing  which  gave  a  new  turn  to  affairs. 


40      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

In  one  of  the  pauses,  a  song  came  monot- 
onously lilting  down  the  street.  Yet  it  was 
not  a  song,  it  was  only  a  sort  of  humming 
or  chanting.  Immediately  there  was  a  clap- 
ping of  hands,  a  flutter  of  female  voices, 
and  delighted  exclamations  of  children. 

"  Oh,  it's  a  dancing  bear !  it's  a  dancing 
bear ! "  they  cried. 

"  Is  it  Pito  ?  "  asked  one. 

"  Is  it  Adrienne  ?  "  cried  another. 

"  But  no ;  I'll  bet  it's  Victor !  "  exclaimed 
a  third. 

As  the  man  and  the  bear  came  nearer, 
they  saw  it  was  neither  one  of  these.  The 
man's  voice  was  not  unpleasant ;  it  had  a 
rolling,  crooning  sort  of  sound,  a  little  weird, 
as  though  he  had  lived  where  men  see  few  of 
their  kind  and  have  much  to  do  with  animals. 
He  was  bearded,  but  young ;  his  hair  grew 
low  on  his  forehead,  and,  although  it  was 
summer-time,  a  fur  cap  was  set  far  back,  like 
a  fez,  upon  his  black  curly  hair.  His  fore- 
head was  corrugated  like  that  of  a  man  of 
sixty  who  had  lived  a  hard  life;  his  eyes 
were  small,  black,  and  piercing.  He  wore 
a  thick,  short  coat,  a  red  sash  about  his 
waist,  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  and  a  loose  red 
scarf,  like  a  handkerchief,  at  his  throat.  His 
feet  were  bare,  and  his  trousers  were  rolled 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      41 

half-way  up  to  his  knee.  In  one  hand  he 
carried  a  short  pole  with  a  steel  pike  in  it, 
in  the  other  a  rope  fastened  to  a  ring  in  the 
bear's  nose. 

The  bear,  a  huge  brown  animal,  upright 
on  his  hind  legs,  was  dancing  sideways  along 
the  road,  keeping  time  to  the  lazy  notes  of 
his  leader's  voice. 

In  front  of  the  Hotel  France  they  halted, 
and  the  bear  danced  round  and  round  in  a 
ring,  his  eyes  rolling  savagely,  his  head  shak- 
ing from  side  to  side  in  a  bad-tempered  way. 

Suddenly  some  one  cried  out :  "  It's  Vanne 
Castine  !  it's  Vanne !  " 

People  crowded  nearer,  there  was  a  flurry 
of  exclamations,  and  then  Christine  took  a 
few  steps  forward  where  she  could  see  the 
man's  face,  and  as  swiftly  drew  back  into  the 
crowd,  pale  and  distraite. 

The  man  watched  her  until  she  drew 
away  behind  a  group  which  was  composed  of 
Ferrol,  her  brother,  and  her  sister  Sophie. 
He  dropped  no  note  of  his  song,  and  the 
bear  kept  jigging  on.  Children  and  elders 
threw  coppers,  which  he  picked  up  with  a 
little  nod  of  his  head,  a  malicious  sort  of 
smile  on  his  lips.  He  kept  a  vigilant  eye  on 
the  bear,  however,  and  his  pole  was  pointed 
constantly  towards  it.  After  about  five 


42      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

minutes  of  this  entertainment,  he  moved 
along  up  the  road.  He  spoke  no  word  to 
anybody,  though  there  were  some  cries  of 
greeting,  but  passed  on,  still  singing  the 
monotonous  song,  followed  by  a  crowd  of 
children.  Presently  he  turned  a  corner,  and 
was  lost  to  sight.  For  a  moment  longer  the 
lullaby  floated  across  the  garden  and  the 
green  fields,  then  the  cornet  and  the  con- 
certina began  again,  and  Ferrol  turned 
towards  Christine. 

He  had  seen  her  paleness  and  her  look 
of  consternation,  had  observed  the  sulky, 
penetrating  look  of  the  bear-leader's  eye, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  stumbling  upon  a 
story.  Her  eye  met  his,  then  swiftly  turned 
away.  When  her  look  came  to  his  face 
again,  it  was  filled  with  defiant  laughter,  and 
a  hot  brilliancy  showed  where  the  paleness 
had  been. 

"  Will  you  dance  with  me  ?  "  Ferrol  asked. 

"  Dance  with  you  here  ?  '*  she  responded 
incredulously. 

"Yes,  just  here,"  he  said,  with  a  little  dry 
laugh,  as  he  ran  his  arm  round  her  waist  and 
drew  her  out  upon  the  green. 

"  And  who  is  Vanne  Castine  ?  "  he  asked 
as  they  swung  away  in  time  with  the  music. 

The  rest  stopped  dancing  when  they  saw 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      43 

these  two  appear  in  the  ring  —  through  curi- 
osity or  through  courtesy. 

She  did  not  answer  immediately.  They 
danced  a  little  longer,  then  he  said : 

"  An  old  friend,  eh  ?  " 

After  a  moment,  with  a  masked  defiance 
still,  and  a  hard  little  laugh,  she  answered  in 
English,  though  his  question  had  been  in 
French : 

"  De  frien'  of  an  olf  frien'." 

"You  seem  to  be  strangers  now,"  he 
suggested. 

She  did  not  answer  at  all,  but  suddenly 
stopped  dancing,  saying,  "  I'm  tired." 

The  dance  went  on  without  them.  Sophie 
and  Farcinelle  presently  withdrew  also.  In 
five  minutes  the  crowd  had  scattered,  and 
the  Lavilettes  and  Mr.  Ferrol  returned  to  the 
house. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  passed  up  the  street, 
the  droning,  vibrating  voice  of  the  bear-leader 
came  floating  along  the  air  and  through  the 
voices  of  the  crowd  like  the  thread  of  motive 
in  the  movement  of  an  opera. 


Chapter  V 

THAT  night,  while  gayety  and  feast- 
ing went  on  at  the  Lavilettes',  there 
was  another  sort   of  feasting  under 
way  at  the  house  of  Shangois  the 
Notary. 

On  one  side  of  a  tiny  fire  in  the  chimney, 
over  which  hung  a  little  black  kettle,  sat 
Shangois  and  Vanne  Castine.  Castine  was 
blowing  clouds  of  smoke  from  his  pipe,  and 
Shangois  was  pouring  some  tea  leaves  into  a 
little  tin  pot,  humming  to  himself  snatches 
of  an  old  song  as  he  did  so : 

"  What  shall  we  do  when  the  King  comes  home  ? 
What  shall  we  do  when  he  rides  along 
With  his  slaves  of  Greece  and  his  serfs  of  Rome  ? 
What  shall  we  sing  for  a  song  — 

When  the  King  comes  home  ? 

"  What  shall  we  do  when  the  King  comes  home  ? 
What  shall  we  do  when  he  speaks  so  fair  ? 
Shall  we  give  him  the  House  with  the  Silver  Dome 
And  the  maid  with  the  crimson  hair  — 

When  the  King  comes  home  ? " 

A  long,  heavy  sigh  filled  the  room,  but  it 
was  not  the  breath  of  Vanne  Castine.  The 

44 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      45 

sound  came  from  the  corner  where  the  huge 
brown  bear  huddled  in  savage  ease.  When 
it  stirred,  as  if  in  response  to  Shangois'  song, 
the  chains  rattled.  He  was  fastened  by  two 
chains  to  a  staple  driven  into  the  foundation 
timbers  of  the  house.  Castine's  bear  might 
easily  be  allowed  too  much  liberty ! 

Once  he  had  killed  a  man  in  the  open 
street  of  the  City  of  Quebec,  and  once  also 
he  had  nearly  killed  Castine.  They  had  had 
a  fight  and  struggle,  out  of  which  the  man 
came  with  a  lacerated  chest,  but  since  that 
time  he  had  become  the  master  of  the  bear. 
It  feared  him,  yet  as  he  travelled  with  it  he 
scarcely  ever  took  his  eyes  off  it,  and  he 
never  trusted  it.  That  was  why,  although 
Michael  was  always  near  him,  sleeping  or 
waking,  he  kept  him  chained  at  night. 

As  Shangois  sang,  Castine's  brow  knotted 
and  twitched  and  his  hand  clinched  on  his 
pipe  with  a  sudden  ferocity. 

"  Name  of  a  black  cat,  what  do  you  sing 
that  song  for,  Notary  ?  "  he  broke  out  pee- 
vishly. "  Nose  of  a  little  god,  are  you 
making  fun  of  me  ?  " 

Shangois  handed  him  some  tea.  u  There's 
no  one  to  laugh,  why  should  I  make  fun  of 
you  ?  "  he  asked  jeeringly  in  English,  for  his 
English  was  almost  as  good  as  his  French, 


46      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

save  in  the  turn  of  certain  idioms.  "Come, 
my  little  punchinello,  tell  me  now,  why  have 
you  come  back  ?  " 

Castine  laughed  bitterly. 

"Ha,  ha,  why  do  I  come  back?  I'll  tell 
you."  He  sucked  at  his  pipe.  "  Bon'ven- 
ture  is  a  good  place  to  come  to  —  yes.  I 
have  been  to  Quebec,  to  St.  John,  to  Fort 
Garry,  to  Detroit,  up  in  Maine,  and  down  to 
New  York.  I  have  ride  a  horse  in  a  circus, 
I  have  drive  a  horse  and  sleigh  in  a  shanty,  I 
have  play  in  a  brass  band,  I  have  drink  whis- 
key every  night  for  a  month  —  enough  whis- 
key. I  have  drink  water  every  night  for  a 
year  —  it  is  not  enough.  I  have  learn  how 
to  speak  English ;  I  have  lose  all  my  money 
when  I  go  to  play  a  game  of  cards.  I  go 
back  to  de  circus,  de  circus  smash,  I  have  no 
pay.  I  take  dat  damn  bear  Michael  as  my 
share  —  yes.  I  walk  t'rough  de  State  of 
New  York,  all  t'rough  de  State  of  Maine  to 
Quebec,  all  de  leetla  village,  all  de  big  city  — 
yes.  I  learn  dat  damn  funny  song  to  sing 
to  Michael.  Ha,  why  do  I  come  to  Bon'- 
venture  ?  What  is  there  in  Bon' venture  ? 
Ha,  you  ask  that  ?  I  know  and  you  know, 
M'sieu'  Shangois.  There  is  nosing  like  Bon'- 
venture  in  all  de  worl'. 

"  What  is  it  you  would  have  ?     Do  you 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      47 

want  nice  warm  house  in  winter,  plenty  pork, 
molass',  patat,  leetla  drop  whiskey  'hind  de 
door  in  de  morning  ?  Ha,  you  come  to  Bon'- 
venture.  Where  else  you  fin'  it  ?  You  want 
people  say,  4  How  do  you,  Vanne  Castine, 
—  how  you  are  ?  Adieu,  Vanne  Castine,  to 
see  you  again  ver'  happy,  Vanne  Castine.' 
Ha,  that  is  what  you  get  in  Bon'venture. 
Who  say  c  God  bless  you '  in  New  York ! 
They  say  *  damn  you '  —  yes,  I  know. 

"Where  have  you  a  church  so  warm,  so 
ver'  nice,  and  everybody  say  him  Mass,  and 
God-have-mercy  ?  Where  you  fin'  it  like 
that  leetla  place  on  de  hill  in  Bon'venture  ? 
Yes.  There  is  anoser  place  in  Bon'venture, 
ver'  nice  place  —  yes,  ha!  On  de  side  of 
de  hill.  You  have  small-pox,  scarlet  fev', 
difthere,  you  get  smash  your  head,  you  get 
break  your  leg,  you  fall  down,  you  go  to  die. 
Ha,  who  is  there  in  all  de  worl'  like  M'sieu* 
Vallier  the  Cure  ?  Who  will  say  to  you  like 
him,  c  Vanne  Castine,  you  have  break  all  de 
commandments ;  you  have  swear,  you  have 
steal,  you  have  kill,  you  have  drink.  Ver* 
well  now,  you  will  be  sorry  for  dat,  and 
say  your  prayer.  Perhaps  after  hunder  fifty 
thousen'  years  of  purgatory,  you  will  be  for- 
give and  go  to  heaven  !  But  first,  when  you 
die,  we  will  put  you  way  down  in  de  leetla 


48      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

warm  house  in  de  ground,  on  de  side  of  de 
hill,  in  de  Parish  of  Bon'venture,  because  it  is 
de  only  place  for  a  gypsy  like  Vanne  Castine.' 

"You  ask  me  —  ah,  I  see  you  look  at  me, 
M'sieu'  le  Notaire,  you  look  at  me  like  a 
leetla  dev'.  You  t'ink  I  come  for  somet'ing 
else"  —  his  black  eyes  flashed  under  his  brow, 
he  shook  his  head,  and  his  hands  clinched  — 
"  You  ask  me  why  I  come  back  ?  I  come 
back  because  there  is  one  thing  I  care  for 
mos'  in  all  de  worP.  You  t'ink  I  am  happy 
to  go  about  with  a  damn  brown  bear,  and 
dance  t'rough  de  village?  Mot? — no,  no, 
no  !  What  a  fool  I  look  when  I  sing  —  ah, 
that  fool's  song  all  down  de  street.  I  come 
back  for  one  thing  only,  M'sieu'  Shangois. 

"You  know  that  night,  ah,  four  —  five 
years  ago  ?  You  remember,  M'sieu'  Shan- 
gois ?  Ah,  she  was  so  beautiful,  so  sweet, 
her  hair  falling  down  about  her  face,  her 
eyes  all  black,  her  cheeks  like  the  snow,  her 
lips,  her  lips  — !  You  rememb'  her  father 
curse  me,  tell  me  to  go.  Why  ?  Because 
I  have  kill  a  man  !  Eh  bien,  what  if  I  kill 
a  man!  He  would  have  kill  me  —  I  did  it 
to  save  myself.  I  say  I  am  not  guilty,  but 
her  father  say  I  am  a  scoundrel,  and  turn 
me  out  of  de  house.  De  girl,  Christine, 
she  love  me.  Yes,  she  love  Vanne  Castine. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      49 

She  say  to  me  CI  will  go  with  you.  Go 
anywhere,  and  I  will  go.' 

"It  is  night  and  it  is  all  dark.  I  wait  at 
de  place,  an'  she  come.  We  start  to  walk 
to  Montreal.  Ah,  dat  night,  it  is  like  fire 
in  my  heart !  Well,  a  great  storm  come 
down,  and  we  have  to  come  back.  We 
come  to  your  house  here,  light  a  fire,  and 
sit  just  in  de  spot  where  I  am,  one  hour, 
two  hour,  three  hour.  Ah,  how  I  love  her ! 
She  is  in  me  like  fire,  like  de  wind  and  de 
sea.  Well,  I  am  happy  like  no  other  man. 
I  sit  here  and  look  at  her,  and  t'ink  of  to- 
morrow—  forever.  She  look  at  me,  oh,  de 
love  of  God,  she  look  at  me !  So  I  kneel 
down  on  de  floor  here  beside  her  and  say, 
4  Who  shall  take  you  from  me,  Christine, 
my  leetla  Christine  ? '  She  look  at  me  and 
say,  'Who  shall  take  you  from  me,  my 
big  Vanne  ? ' 

"  All  at  once  de  door  open,  and  —  " 

"  And  a  little  black  notary  take  her  from 
you,"  said  Shangois  dryly,  and  with  a  touch 
of  malice  also. 

"  You,  yes,  you  lawyer  dev',  you  take  her 
from  me !  You  say  to  her  it  is  wicked. 
You  tell  her  how  her  father  will  weep,  and 
her  mother's  heart  will  break.  You  tell  her 
how  she  will  be  ashame',  and  a  curse  will  fall 


50      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

on  her.  Then  she  begin  to  cry,  for  she  is 
afraid.  Ah,  where  is  de  wrong  ?  I  love  her, 
I  would  go  to  marry  her  —  but  no,  what  is 
that  to  you !  She  turn  on  me  and  say,  1 1 
will  go  back  to  my  father.'  And  she  go  back. 
After  that  I  try  to  see  her,  but  she  will  not 
see  me.  Then  I  go  away,  and  I  am  gone 
five  years,  yes  !  " 

Shangois  came  over,  and  with  his  thin 
beautiful  hand  (for  despite  the  ill-kept  finger- 
nails, it  was  the  one  fine  feature  of  his  body, 
long,  shapely,  artistic)  tapped  Castine's  knee. 

"I  did  right  to  save  Christine.  She  hates 
you  now.  If  she  had  gone  with  you  that 
night,  do  you  suppose  she  would  have  been 
happy  as  your  wife  ?  No,  she  is  not  for 
Vanne  Castine." 

Suddenly  Shangois'  manner  changed ;  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  My  poor,  wicked,  good-for-nothing  Vanne 
Castine,  Christine  Lavilette  was  not  made 
for  you.  You  are  a  poor  vaurien,  always 
a  poor  vaurien.  I  knew  your  father  and 
your  two  grandfathers.  They  were  all 
vauriens,  all  as  handsome  as  you  can  think, 
and  all  died,  not  in  their  beds.  Your  grand- 
father killed  a  man,  your  father  drank  and 
killed  a  man.  Your  grandfather  drove  his 
wife  to  her  grave,  your  father  broke  your 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      51 

mother's  heart.  Why  should  you  break  the 
heart  of  any  girl  in  the  world  ?  Leave  her 
alone.  Is  it  love  to  a  woman  when  you 
break  all  the  commandments,  and  shame  her, 
and  bring  her  down  to  where  you  are  —  a 
bad  vaurien  ?  When  a  man  loves  a  woman 
with  the  true  love,  he  will  try  to  do  good  for 
her  sake.  Go  back  to  that  crazy  New 
York  —  it  is  the  place  for  you.  Mademoi- 
selle Christine  is  not  for  you." 

«  Who  is  she  for,  M'sieu'  le  dev'  ? " 

"Perhaps  for  the  English  nobleman," 
answered  Shangois,  in  a  low  suggestive  tone, 
as  he  dropped  a  little  brandy  in  his  tea  with 
light  fingers. 

"  Ah,  sacre,  we  shall  see.  There  is  vaurien 
in  her  too !  "  was  the  half-triumphant  reply. 

"  There  is  more  woman,"  retorted  Shangois ; 
"  much  more." 

"We'll  see  about  that,  m'sieu' ! "  exclaimed 
Castine,  as  he  turned  towards  the  bear,  which 
was  clawing  at  his  chain. 

An  hour  later,  a  scene  quite  as  important 
occurred  at  Lavilette's  great  farmhouse. 


Chapter  VI 

IT  was  about  ten  o'clock.  Lights  were 
burning  in  every  window.  At  a  table 
in  the  dining-room  sat  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Lavilette,  the  father  of  Magon 
Farcinelle,  and  Shangois  the  Notary.  The 
marriage  contract  was  before  them.  They 
had  reached  a  point  of  difficulty.  Farcinelle 
was  stipulating  for  five  acres  of  river-land 
as  another  item  in  Sophie's  dot. 

The  corners  tightened  around  Madame's 
mouth.  Lavilette  scratched  his  head,  so  that 
the  hair  stood  up  like  flying  tassels  of  corn. 
The  land  in  question  lay  next  a  portion  of 
Farcinelle's  own  farm,  with  a  river  frontage. 
On  it  was  a  little  house  and  shed,  and  no 
better  garden  stuff  grew  in  the  Parish  than 
on  this  same  five  acres. 

"  But  I  do  not  own  the  land,"  said  Lavilette. 

"You've  got  a  mortgage  on  it,"  answered 
Farcinelle.  "  Foreclose  it." 

"  Suppose  I  did  foreclose,  you  couldn't  put 
the  land  in  the  marriage  contract  until  it  was 
mine." 

52 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      53 

The  Notary  shrugged  his  shoulder  ironi- 
cally, and  dropped  his  chin  in  his  hand  as  he 
furtively  eyed  the  two  men.  Farcinelle  was 
ready  for  the  emergency.  He  turned  to 
Shangois. 

"I've  got  everything  ready  for  the  fore- 
closure," said  he.  u  Couldn't  it  be  done 
to-night,  Shangois  ? " 

"  Hardly  to-night.  You  might  foreclose, 
but  the  property  couldn't  be  Monsieur  Lavi- 
lette's  until  it  is  duly  sold  under  the  mortgage." 

"  Here,  I'll  tell  you  what  can  be  done," 
said  Farcinelle.  "  You  can  put  the  mortgage 
in  the  contract  as  her  dot,  and,  name  of  a 
little  man !  I'll  foreclose  it,  I  can  tell  you. 
Come  now,  Lavilette,  is  it  a  bargain  ? " 

Shangois  sat  back  in  his  chair,  the  fingers 
of  both  hands  drumming  on  the  table  before 
him,  his  head  twisted  a  little  to  one  side. 
His  little  reflective  eyes  sparkled  with  mali- 
cious interest,  and  his  little  voice  said,  as 
though  he  were  speaking  to  himself: 

"  Excuse  me,  but  the  land  belongs  to  the 
young  Vanne  Castine  —  eh  ?  " 

"That's  it,"  exclaimed  Farcinelle. 

"Well,  why  not  give  the  poor  vaurien  a 
chance  to  take  up  the  mortgage  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  hasn't  paid  the  interest  in  five 
years  !  "  said  Lavilette. 


54      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  But  —  ah  —  you  have  had  the  use  of  the 
land  I  think,  monsieur.  That  should  meet 
the  interest." 

Lavilette  scowled  a  little ;  Farcinelle 
grunted  and  laughed. 

"  How  can  I  give  him  a  chance  to  pay  the 
mortgage  ?  "  said  Lavilette.  "  He  never  had 
a  penny.  Besides,  he  hasn't  been  seen  for 
five  years." 

A  faint  smile  passed  over  Shangois'  face. 

"Yesterday,"  he  said,  "he  had  not  been  seen 
for  five  years,  but  to-day  he  is  in  Bonaventure." 

"  The  devil !  "  said  Lavilette,  dropping  a 
fist  on  the  table,  and  staring  at  the  Notary ; 
for  he  was  not  present  in  the  afternoon  when 
Castine  passed  by. 

"What  difference  does  that  make  ? "  snarled 
Farcinelle.  "  I'll  bet  he's  got  nothing  more 
than  what  he  went  away  with,  and  that  wasn't 
a  sou  markee  !  " 

A  provoking  smile  flickered  at  the  corners 
of  Shangois'  mouth,  and  he  said  with  a  dry 
inflection,  as  he  dipped  and  redipped  his  quill 
pen  in  the  inkhorn  : 

"  He  has  a  bear,  my  friends,  which  dances 
very  well." 

Farcinelle  guffawed.  "  St.  Mary  !  "  said 
he,  slapping  his  leg,  "  we'll  have  the  bear  at 
the  wedding,  and  I'll  have  that  farm  of  Vanne 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      55 

Castine's.  What  does  he  want  of  a  farm  ? 
He's  got  a  bear.  Come,  is  it  a  bargain  ?  Am 
I  to  have  the  mortgage  ?  If  you  don't  stick 
that  in,  I'll  not  let  my  boy  marry  your  girl, 
Lavilette.  There  now,  that's  my  last  word." 

"  c  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbour's 
house,  nor  his  wife,  nor  his  maid,  nor  his  ox, 
nor  his  ass,  nor  anything  that  is  his,'  "  said 
the  Notary,  abstractedly,  drawing  the  picture 
of  a  fat  Jew  on  the  paper  before  him. 

The  irony  was  lost  upon  his  hearers. 
Madame  Lavilette  had  been  thinking,  how- 
ever, and  she  saw  further  than  her  husband. 

"  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing,"  she  said. 
"  You  see  it  doesn't  go  away  from  Sophie,  so 
let  him  have  it,  Louis." 

"All  right,"  responded  Monsieur  at  last, 
"  Sophie  gets  the  acres  and  the  house  in  her 
dot." 

"  You  won't  give  young  Vanne  Castine  a 
chance  ?  "  asked  the  Notary.  "  The  mort- 
gage is  for  four  hundred  dollars,  the  place  is 
worth  seven  hundred  !  " 

No  one  replied.  "Very  well,  my  Israel- 
ites," added  Shangois,  bending  over  the  con- 
tract. 

An  hour  later,  Nicolas  Lavilette  was  in  the 
big  storeroom  of  the  farmhouse,  which  was 


56      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

reached  by  a  covered  passage  from  the  hall 
between  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room. 
In  his  off-hand  way  he  was  getting  out  some 
flour,  dried  fruit,  and  preserves  for  the  cook, 
who  stood  near  as  he  loaded  up  her  arms.  He 
laughingly  thrust  a  string  of  green  peppers 
under  her  chin,  and  added  a  couple  of  sprigs 
of  summer  savory,  then  suddenly  turned 
round  with  a  start,  for  a  peculiar  low  whistle 
came  to  him  through  the  half-open  window. 
It  was  followed  by  heavy  stertorious  breath- 
ing. He  turned  back  again  to  the  cook, 
gayly  took  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  pushed 
her  to  the  door.  Closing  it  behind  her,  he 
shot  the  bolt  and  ran  back  to  the  window. 
As  he  did  so,  a  hand  appeared  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  a  face  followed  the  hand. 

"  Ha,  Nicolas  Lavilette,  is  that  you  ?  So, 
you  know  my  leetla  whistle  again  !  " 

Nicolas'  brow  darkened.  In  old  days  he 
and  this  same  Vanne  Castine  had  been  in 
many  a  scrape  together,  and  Vanne,  the  elder, 
had  always  borne  the  responsibility  of  their 
adventures.  Nicolas  had  had  enough  of  those 
old  days ;  other  ambitions  and  habits  gov- 
erned him  now.  He  was  not  exactly  the 
man  to  go  back  on  a  friend,  but  Castine  no 
longer  had  any  particular  claims  to  friendship. 
The  last  time  he  had  heard  Vanne's  whistle 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      57 

was  a  night  five  years  before  when  they  both 
joined  a  gang  of  river-drivers,  and  made  a 
raid  on  some  sham  American  speculators  and 
surveyors  and  labourers  who  were  exploiting 
an  oil  well  on  the  property  of  the  Old  Sei- 
gneur. The  two  had  come  out  of  the  melee 
with  bruised  heads,  and  Vanne  with  a  bullet 
in  his  calf.  But  soon  afterwards  came  Chris- 
tine's elopement  with  Vanne,  of  which  no 
one  knew  save  her  father,  Nicolas,  Shangois, 
and  Vanne  himself.  That  ended  their  com- 
pact, and,  after  a  bitter  quarrel,  they  had 
parted,  and  had  never  met  nor  seen  each 
other  till  this  very  afternoon. 

"  Oh,  I  know  your  whistle  all  right," 
answered  Nicolas,  with  a  twist  of  the  shoulder. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  shake  hands?"  asked 
Castine,  with  a  sort  of  sneer  on  his  face. 

Nicolas  thrust  his  hands  down  in  his 
pockets.  "I'm  not  so  glad  to  see  you  as 
all  that,"  he  answered,  with  a  contemptuous 
laugh. 

The  black  eyes  of  the  bear-leader  were 
alive  with  anger. 

"You're  a  dam'  fool,  Nic  Lavilette.  You 
think  because  I  lead  a  bear  —  eh?  Pshaw, 
you  shall  see !  I  am  nothing,  eh  ?  I  am 
to  walk  on !  Nic  Lavilette,  once  he  steal 
the  Cure's  pig  and  —  " 


58      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  See  you  there,  Castine,  I've  had  enough 
of  that,"  was  the  half-angry,  half-amused 
interruption.  u  What  are  you  after  here  ?  " 

"  What  was  I  after  five  years  ago  ? "  was 
the  meaning  reply. 

Lavilette's  face  suddenly  flushed  with  fury. 
He  gripped  the  window  with  both  hands,  and 
made  as  if  he  would  leap  out,  but  beside 
Castine's  face  there  appeared  another,  with 
glaring  eyes,  red  tongue,  white  vicious  teeth, 
and  two  huge  claws  which  dropped  on  the 
ledge  of  the  window  in  much  the  same  way 
as  did  Lavilette's. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  as  the  man 
and  the  beast  looked  at  each  other,  and  then 
Castine  began  laughing  in  a  low,  sneering 
sort  of  way. 

"  I'll  shoot  the  beast,  and  I'll  break  your 
neck  if  ever  I  see  you  on  this  farm  again  !  " 
said  Lavilette,  with  wild  anger. 

"  Break  my  neck  —  that's  all  right ;  but 
shoot  this  leetla  Michael !  When  you  do 
that  you  will  not  have  to  wait  for  a  British 
bullet  to  kill  you.  I  will  do  it  with  a  knife  — 
just  where  you  can  hear  it  sing  under  your 
ear ! " 

"  British  bullet !  "  said  Lavilette,  excit- 
edly —  "  what  about  a  British  bullet  —  eh  — 
what  ? " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      59 

"  Only  that  the  Rebellion's  coming  quick 
now/'  answered  Castine,  his  manner  chang- 
ing, and  a  look  of  cunning  crossing  his  face. 
"  You've  given  your  name  to  the  great  Papi- 
neau, and  I  am  here,  as  you  see !  " 

"  You  —  you  !  —  what  have  you  got  to  do 
with  the  Revolution  ?  with  Papineau  ?  " 

"  Pah,  do  you  think  a  Lavilette  is  the  only 
patriot !  Papineau  is  my  friend,  and  —  " 

"Your  friend!  — " 

"My  friend.  I  am  carrying  his  message 
all  through  the  Parishes.  Bonaventure  is 
the  last  —  almost.  The  great  General  Papi- 
neau sends  you  a  word,  Nic  Lavilette — 
here." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter  and 
handed  it  over.  Lavilette  tore  it  open.  It 
was  a  captain's  commission  for  Monsieur 
Nicolas  Lavilette,  with  a  call  for  money,  a 
company  of  men,  and  horses. 

"  Maybe  there's  a  leetla  noose  hanging 
from  the  tail  of  that,  but  then  —  it  is  the 
glory  —  eh,  Captain  Lavilette  —  eh  ? "  There 
was  covert  malice  in  Castine's  voice.  "If 
the  English  whip  us,  they  won't  shoot  us 
like  grand  seigneurs,  they  will  hang  us  like 
dogs !  " 

Lavilette  scarcely  noticed  the  sneer.  He 
was  seeing  visions  of  a  captain's  sword  and 


I 


60      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

epaulettes,  and  planning  to  get  men,  money, 
and  horses  together  —  for  this  matter  had 
been  brooding  for  nearly  a  year,  and  he  had 
been  the  active  leader  in  Bonaventure. 

"We've  been  near  a  hundred  years,  we 
Frenchmen,  eating  dirt  in  the  country  we 
owned  from  the  start ;  and  I'd  rather  die 
fighting  to  get  back  the  old  Citadel  than  live 
with  the  English  heel  on  my  nose,"  said 
Lavilette,  with  a  play-acting  attempt  at 
oratory. 

"  Yes,  an'  dey  call  us  Johnny  Pea-soups," 
said  Castine,  with  a  furtive  grin.  "  An'  per- 
haps that  British  Colborne  will  hang  us  to 
our  barn  doors  —  eh  ?  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  in  which 
Lavilette  read  the  letter  over  again  with 
gloating  eyes.  Presently  Castine  started  and 
looked  round. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

"I  heard  nothing." 

"I  heard  the  feet  of  a  man  —  yes!" 

They  both  stood  moveless,  listening. 
There  was  no  sound ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
the  Hon.  Mr.  Ferrol  had  the  secret  of  the 
Rebellion  in  his  hands. 

A  moment  later  Castine  and  his  bear  were 
out  in  the  road.  Lavilette  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  mused. 


I 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      61 

Castine's  words  of  a  few  moments  before 
came  to  him : 

"That  British  Colborne  will  hang  us  to 
our  barn  doors  —  eh  ? " 

He  shuddered,  and  struck  a  light. 


Chapter  VII 

MR.  FERROL  slept  in  the  large  guest- 
chamber  of  the  house.  Above  it 
was  Christine's  bedroom.  Thick 
as  were  the  timbers  and  boards  of 
the  floor,  Christine  could  hear  one  sound 
painfully  monotonous  and  frequent,  coming 
from  his  room  the  whole  night  —  the  hack- 
ing, rending  cough  which  she  had  heard  so 
often  since  he  came.  The  fear  of  Vanne 
Castine,  the  memories  of  the  wild,  half- 
animal-like  love  she  had  had  for  him  in  the 
old  days,  the  excitement  of  the  new  events 
which  had  come  into  her  life,  —  these  kept 
her  awake,  and  she  tossed  and  turned  in 
feverish  unrest.  All  that  had  happened  since 
Ferrol  had  arrived,  every  word  that  he  had 
spoken,  every  motion  that  he  had  made, 
every  look  of  his  face,  she  recalled  vividly. 
All  that  he  was  which  was  different  from  the 
people  she  had  known  she  magnified,  so  that 
to  her  he  had  a  distant,  overwhelming  sort  of 
grandeur.  She  beat  the  bedclothes  in  her  rest- 
lessness. Suddenly  she  sat  up  straight  in  bed. 
62 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      63 

"  Oh,  if  I  hadn't  been  a  Lavilette !  If 
I'd  only  been  born  and  brought  up  with  the 
sort  of  people  he  comes  from,  I'd  not  have 
been  ashamed  of  myself  or  he  of  me  !  " 

The  plush  waist  she  had  worn  that  day 
danced  before  her  eyes.  She  knew  how  hor- 
ribly ugly  it  was.  Her  fingers  ran  over  the 
patchwork  quilt  on  her  bed ;  and  although 
she  could  not  see  it,  she  loathed  it,  because 
she  knew  it  was  a  painful  mess  of  colours. 
With  a  little  touch  of  dramatic  extravagance 
she  leaned  over  and  down,  and  drew  her 
fingers  contemptuously  along  the  rag-carpet 
on  the  floor.  Then  she  cried  a  little  hysteri- 
cally : 

"  He  never  saw  anything  like  that  before. 
How  he  must  laugh  as  he  sits  there  in  that 
room  !  " 

As  if  in  reply,  the  hacking  cough  came 
faintly  through  the  time-worn  floor. 

"That  cough's  going  to  kill  him,  to  kill 
him,"  she  said. 

Then  with  a  little  start  and  with  a  sort  of 
cry,  which  she  stopped  by  putting  both  hands 
over  her  mouth,  she  said  to  herself  brokenly : 

"Why  shouldn't  he  —  why  shouldn't  he 
love  me  !  I  could  take  care  of  him  ;  I  could 
nurse  him  ;  I  could  wait  on  him  ;  I  could  be 
better  to  him  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 


64      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

And  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  him 
at  all  in  the  end.  He's  going  to  die  before 
long  —  I  know  it.  Well,  what  does  it  matter 
what  becomes  of  me  afterwards  ?  I  should 
have  had  him ;  I  should  have  loved  him ;  he 
should  have  been  mine  for  a  little  while  any- 
way. I'd  be  good  to  him,  oh,  I'd  be  good  to 
him  !  Who  else  is  there  ?  He'll  get  worse 
and  worse ;  and  what  will  any  of  the  fine 
ladies  do  for  him  then,  I'd  like  to  know! 
Why  aren't  they  here  ?  Why  isn't  he  with 
them  ?  He's  poor  —  Nic  says  so  —  and 
they're  rich.  Why  don't  they  help  him  ? 
I  would.  I'd  give  him  my  last  penny  and 
the  last  drop  of  blood  in  my  heart.  What 
do  they  know  about  love  ?  " 

Her  little  teeth  clinched,  she  shook  her 
brown  hair  back  like  a  young  tigress. 

"  What  do  they  know  about  love  ?  What 
would  they  do  for  it  ?  I'd  have  my  fingers 
chopped  off"  one  by  one  for  it.  I'd  break 
every  one  of  the  ten  commandments  for  it. 
I'd  lose  my  soul  for  it. 

"I've  got  twenty  times  as  much  heart  as 
any  one  of  them,  I  don't  care  who  they  are. 
I'd  lie  for  him;  I'd  steal  for  him;  I'd  kill 
for  him.  I'd  watch  everything  that  he  says, 
and  I'd  say  it  as  he  says  it.  I'd  be  angry 
when  he  was  angry,  miserable  when  he  was 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      65 

miserable,  happy  when  he  was  happy.  Vanne 
Castine  —  what  was  he  !  What  was  it  that 
made  me  care  for  him  then  ?  And  now  — 
now  he  travels  with  a  bear,  and  they  toss 
coppers  to  him  —  a  beggar,  a  tramp,  a  dirty 
lazy  tramp  !  He  hates  me,  I  know  —  or  else 
he  loves  me,  and  that's  worse  !  And  I'm 
afraid  of  him,  I  know  I'm  afraid  of  him. 
Oh,  how  will  it  all  end  ?  I  know  there's 
going  to  be  trouble ;  I  could  see  it  in  Vanne's 
face.  But  I  don't  care,  I  don't  care,  if  Mr. 
Ferrol  —  " 

The  cough  came  droning  through  the 
floor. 

"If  he'd  only  —  ah,  I'd  do  anything  for 
him,  anything ;  anybody  would.  I  saw 
Sophie  look  at  him  as  she  never  looked  at 
Magon  !  If  she  did  —  if  she  dared  to  care 
for  him  —  !  " 

All  at  once  she  shivered,  as  if  with  shame 
and  fright,  drew  the  bedclothes  about  her 
head,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping.  When 
it  passed,  she  lay  still  and  nerveless  between 
the  coarse  sheets,  and  sank  into  a  deep  sleep 
just  as  the  dawn  crept  through  the  cracks 
of  the  blind. 


Chapter  VIII 

THE  weeks  went  by.  Sophie  had  be- 
come the  wife  of  the  member  for 
the  country,  and  had  instantly  set- 
tled down  to  a  quiet  life.  This  was 
disconcerting  to  Madame  Lavilette,  who  had 
hoped  that  out  of  Farcinelle's  official  posi- 
tion she  might  reap  some  praise  and  pence  of 
ambition.  Meanwhile,  Ferrol  became  more 
and  more  a  cherished  and  important  figure  in 
the  Manor  Casimbault,  in  which  the  Lavi- 
lettes  had  made  their  home  soon  after  the 
wedding.  The  old  farmhouse  had  mean- 
while become  a  rendezvous  for  the  mysteri- 
ous Nicolas  Lavilette  and  his  rebel  comrades. 
This  was  known  to  Mr.  Ferrol.  One  even- 
ing he  stopped  Nic  as  he  was  leaving  the 
house,  and  said : 

"  See,  Nic,  my  boy,  what's  up  ?  I  know 
a  thing  or  so  —  what's  the  use  of  playing 
peek-a-boo  ? " 

"  What  do  you  know,  Ferrol  ?  " 

"  What's  between  you  and  Vanne  Castine, 

66 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      67 

for  instance.  Come  now,  own  up  and  tell 
me  all  about  it.  I'm  English,  but  I'm  Nic 
Lavilette's  friend  anyhow." 

He  insinuated  into  his  tone  that  little  touch 
of  brogue  which  he  used  when  particularly 
persuasive.  Nic  put  out  his  hand  with  a 
burst  of  good-natured  frankness. 

"  Meet  me  in  the  storeroom  of  the  old 
farmhouse  at  nine  o'clock,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
Here's  a  key." 

Handing  over  the  key,  he  grasped  Ferrol's 
hand  with  an  effusive  confidence,  and  hurried 
out.  Nic  Lavilette  was  now  an  important 
person  in  his  own  sight  and  in  the  sight  of 
others  in  Bonaventure.  In  him  the  pomp  of 
his  family  took  an  individual  form. 

Earlier  than  the  appointed  time  Ferrol 
turned  the  key  and  stepped  inside  the  big 
despoiled  hallway  of  the  old  farmhouse.  His 
footsteps  sounded  hollow  in  the  empty  rooms. 
Already  dust  had  gathered,  and  an  air  of 
desertion  and  decay  filled  the  place  in  spite 
of  the  solid  timbers  and  sound  floors  and 
window-sills.  He  took  out  his  watch ;  it 
was  ten  minutes  to  nine.  Passing  through 
the  little  hallway  to  the  storeroom,  he  opened 
the  door.  It  was  dark  inside.  Striking  a 
match,  he  saw  a  candle  on  the  window-sill, 
and  going  to  it  he  lighted  it  with  a  flint  and 


68      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

steel  lying  near.  The  window  was  shut 
tight.  From  curiosity  only  he  tried  to  open 
the  shutter,  but  it  was  immovable.  Looking 
round,  he  saw  another  candle  on  the  window- 
sill  opposite.  He  lighted  it  also,  and  me- 
chanically tried  to  force  the  shutters  of  the 
window,  but  they  were  tight  also.  Going  to 
the  door,  which  opened  into  the  farmyard, 
he  found  it  securely  fastened.  Although  he 
turned  the  lock,  the  door  would  not  open. 

Presently  his  attention  was  drawn  by  the 
glitter  of  something  upon  one  of  the  cross- 
pieces  of  timber  half-way  up  the  wall.  Going 
over,  he  examined  it,  and  found  it  to  be 
a  broken  bayonet,  —  left  there  by  a  careless 
rebel.  Placing  the  steel  again  upon  the  ledge 
he  began  walking  up  and  down  thoughtfully. 

Presently  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
coughing.  The  paroxysm  lasted  a  minute 
or  more,  and  he  placed  his  arm  upon  the 
window-sill,  leaning  his  head  upon  it.  Pres- 
ently, as  the  paroxysm  lessened,  he  thought 
he  heard  the  click  of  a  lock.  He  raised  his 
head,  but  his  eyes  were  misty,  and  seeing 
nothing,  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  arm  again. 

Suddenly  he  felt  something  near  him. 
He  swung  round  swiftly,  and  saw  Vanne 
Castine's  bear  not  fifteen  feet  away  from 
him  !  It  raised  itself  on  its  hind  legs,  its  red 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      69 

eyes  rolling,  and  started  towards  him.  He 
picked  up  the  candle  from  the  window-sill, 
threw  it  in  the  animal's  face,  and  dashed 
towards  the  door. 

It  was  locked !  He  swung  round.  The 
huge  beast,  with  a  loud  snarl,  was  coming 
down  upon  him. 

Here  he  was  shut  within  four  solid  walls 
with  a  wild  beast  hungry  for  his  life.  All 
his  instincts  were  alive.  He  had  little  hope 
of  saving  himself,  but  he  was  determined  to 
do  what  lay  in  his  power. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  blow  out  the 
other  candle.  That  would  leave  him  in  the 
dark,  and  it  struck  him  that  his  advantage 
would  be  greater  if  there  were  no  light. 
He  came  straight  towards  the  bear,  then 
suddenly  made  a  swift  movement  to  the  left, 
trusting  to  his  greater  quickness  of  move- 
ment. The  beast  was  nearly  as  quick  as 
he,  and  as  he  dashed  along  the  wall  towards 
the  candle,  he  could  hear  its  hot  breath  just 
behind  him. 

As  he  passed  the  window,  he  caught  the 
candle  in  his  hands,  and  was  about  to  throw 
it  on  the  floor  or  in  the  bear's  face,  when 
he  remembered  that,  in  the  dark,  the  bear's 
sense  of  smell  would  be  as  effective  as  eye- 
sight, while  he  himself  would  be  no  better  off. 


jo      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

He  ran  suddenly  to  the  centre  of  the 
room,  the  candle  still  in  his  hand,  and  turned 
to  meet  his  foe.  It  came  savagely  at  him. 
He  dodged,  ran  past  it,  turned,  doubled  on 
it,  and  dodged  again.  A  half-dozen  times 
this  was  repeated,  the  candle  still  flaring. 
It  could  not  last  long.  The  bear  was  en- 
raged. Its  movements  became  swifter,  its 
vicious  teeth  and  lips  were  covered  with 
froth,  which  dripped  to  the  floor,  and  some- 
times spattered  Ferrol's  clothes  as  he  ran 
past.  No  toreador  ever  played  with  the 
horns  of  a  mad  bull  as  Ferrol  played  his 
deadly  game  with  Michael  the  dancing  bear. 
His  breath  was  becoming  shorter  and  shorter; 
he  had  a  stifling  sensation,  a  terrible  tightness 
across  his  chest.  He  did  not  cough  how- 
ever, but  once  or  twice  he  tasted  warm  drops 
of  his  heart's  blood  in  his  mouth.  Once  he 
drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  lips 
mechanically,  and  a  red  stain  showed  upon  it. 

In  his  boyhood  and  early  manhood  he  had 
been  a  good  sportsman ;  had  been  quick 
of  eye,  swift  of  foot,  and  fearless.  But 
what  could  fearlessness  avail  him  in  this 
strait?  With  the  best  of  rifles  he  would 
have  felt  himself  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
was  certain  his  time  had  come ;  and  with 
that  conviction  upon  him,  the  terror  of  the 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      71 

thing,  and  the  horrible  physical  shrinking, 
almost  passed  away  from  him.  The  disease 
eating  away  his  life  had  diminished  that 
revolt  against  death  which  is  in  the  healthy 
flesh  of  every  man.  He  was  levying  upon 
the  vital  forces  remaining  in  him  which, 
distributed  naturally,  might  cover  a  year  or 
so,  to  give  him  here  and  now  a  few  moments 
of  unnatural  strength  for  the  completion  of  a 
hopeless  struggle. 

It  was  also  as  if  two  brains  in  him  were 
working ;  one  busy  with  all  the  chances  and 
details  of  his  wild  contest,  the  other  with  the 
events  of  his  life. 

Pictures  flashed  before  him.  Some  having 
to  do  with  the  earliest  days  of  his  childhood ; 
some  with  fighting  in  the  Danube  before  he 
left  the  army,  impoverished  and  ashamed ; 
some  with  idle  hours  in  the  North  Tower  in 
Stavely  Castle;  and  one  with  the  day  he 
and  his  sister  left  the  old  Castle,  never  to 
return,  and  looked  back  upon  it  from  the 
top  of  Farcalladen  Moor,  waving  a  "  God- 
bless-you  "  to  it.  The  thought  of  his  sister 
filled  him  with  a  desire,  a  pitiful  desire,  to 
live. 

Just  then  another  picture  flashed  before 
his  eyes.  It  was  he  himself,  riding  the  mad 
stallion,  Bolingbroke,  the  first  year  he  fol- 


72      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

lowed  the  hounds.  How  the  brute  tried  to 
smash  his  leg  against  a  stone  wall ;  how  it 
reared  until  it  almost  toppled  over  and  back- 
wards; how  it  jibbed  at  a  gate,  and  nearly 
dashed  its  own  brains  out  against  a  tree ;  and 
how,  after  an  hour's  hard  fighting,  he  made 
it  take  the  stiffest  fence  and  watercourse  in 
the  country. 

This  thought  gave  him  courage  now.  He 
suddenly  remembered  the  broken  bayonet 
upon  the  ledge  against  the  wall.  If  he  could 
reach  it,  there  might  be  a  chance  —  chance 
to  strike  one  blow  for  life.  As  his  eye 
glanced  towards  the  wall,  he  saw  the  steel 
flash  in  the  light  of  the  candle. 

The  bear  was  between  him  and  it.  He 
made  a  feint  towards  the  left,  then  as  quickly 
to  the  right.  But  doing  so,  he  slipped  and 
fell.  The  candle  dropped  to  the  floor  and 
went  out.  With  a  lightning-like  instinct  of 
self-preservation  he  swung  over  upon  his 
face  just  as  the  bear,  in  its  wild  rush,  passed 
over  his  head.  He  remembered  afterwards 
the  odour  of  the  hot,  rank  body,  and  the 
sprawling  huge  feet  and  claws.  Scrambling 
to  his  feet  swiftly,  he  ran  to  the  wall.  Fort- 
une was  with  him.  His  hand  almost  instantly 
clutched  the  broken  bayonet.  He  whipped 
out  his  handkerchief,  tore  the  scarf  from  his 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      73 

neck,  and  wound  them  around  his  hand,  that 
the  broken  bayonet  should  not  tear  the  flesh 
as  he  fought  for  his  life.  Then  seizing  it, 
he  stood  waiting  for  the  bear  to  come  on. 
His  body  was  bent  forward,  his  eyes  straining 
into  the  dark,  his  hot  face  dripping  —  drip- 
ping—  sweat,  his  breath  coming  hard  and 
laboured  from  his  throat. 

For  a  minute  there  was  absolute  silence, 
save  for  the  breathing  of  the  man  and  the 
savage  panting  of  the  beast.  Presently  he 
felt  exactly  where  the  bear  was,  and  listened 
intently.  He  knew  that  it  was  now  but  a 
question  of  minutes,  perhaps  seconds.  Sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  could 
but  climb  upon  the  ledge  where  the  bayonet 
had  been,  there  might  be  safety.  Yet,  again, 
in  getting  up  the  bear  might  seize  him,  and 
there  would  be  an  end  to  all  immediately. 
It  was  worth  trying,  however. 

Two  things  happened  at  that  moment  to 
prevent  the  trial :  the  sound  of  knocking  on 
a  door  somewhere,  and  the  roaring  rush  of 
the  bear  upon  him.  He  sprang  to  one  side, 
striking  at  the  beast  as  he  did  so.  The 
bayonet  went  in  and  out  again.  There  came 
voices  from  the  outside ;  evidently  somebody 
was  trying  to  get  in.  The  bear  roared  again 
and  came  on.  It  was  all  a  blind  man's  game. 


74      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

But  his  scent,  like  the  animal's,  was  keen. 
He  had  taken  off  his  coat,  and  he  now  swung 
it  out  before  him  in  a  half-circle,  and  as  it 
struck  the  bear  it  covered  his  own  position. 
He  swung  aside  once  more  and  drove  his 
arm  into  the  dark.  The  bayonet  struck  the 
nose  of  the  beast. 

Now  there  was  a  knocking  and  a  hammer- 
ing at  the  window,  and  the  wrenching  of  the 
shutters.  He  gathered  himself  together  for 
the  next  assault.  Suddenly  he  felt  that  every 
particle  of  strength  had  gone  out  of  him. 
He  pulled  himself  up  with  a  last  effort  —  his 
legs  would  not  support  him ;  he  shivered  and 
swayed !  God !  would  they  never  get  that 
window  open  ! 

His  senses  were  abnormally  acute.  Another 
sound  attracted  him.  The  opening  of  the 
door,  and  a  voice  —  Vanne  Castine's  —  call- 
ing to  the  bear. 

His  heart  seemed  to  give  a  leap,  then 
slowly  to  roll  over  with  a  thud,  and  he  fell 
to  the  floor  as  the  bear  lunged  forward  upon 
him. 

A  minute  afterwards  Vanne  Castine  was 
goading  the  savage  beast  through  the  door 
and  out  to  the  hall-way  into  the  yard  as  Nic 
swung  through  the  open  window  into  the 
room. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      75 

Castine's  lantern  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  and  between  it  and  the  window 
lay  Ferrol,  the  broken  bayonet  still  clutched 
in  his  right  hand.  Lavilette  dropped  on  his 
knees  beside  him  and  felt  his  heart.  It  was 
beating,  but  the  shirt  and  the  waistcoat  were 
dripping  with  blood  where  the  bear  had  set 
its  claws  and  teeth  in  the  shoulder  of  its 
victim. 

An  hour  later  Nic  Lavilette  stood  outside 
the  door  of  Ferrol's  bedroom  in  the  Manor 
Casimbault  talking  to  the  Regimental  Surgeon, 
as  Christine,  pale  and  wild-eyed,  came  running 
towards  them. 


Chapter   IX 

"  TT  S  he  dead  ?  is  he  dead  ? "  she  asked 
distractedly.  "  I've  just  come  from 

JL  the  village.  Why  didn't  you  send  for 
me  ?  Tell  me  !  is  he  dead  ?  Oh,  tell 
me  at  once  !  " 

She  caught  the  Regimental  Surgeon's  arm. 
He  looked  down  at  her  over  his  glasses  be- 
nignly, for  she  had  always  been  a  favourite  of 
his,  and  answered : 

"  Alive,  alive,  my  dear !  Bad  rip  in  the 
shoulder  —  worn  out  —  weak  —  shattered  — 
but  good  for  a  while  yet  —  yes,  yes  —  ex- 
act ement  !  " 

With  a  wayward  impulse,  she  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the 
cheek.  The  embrace  disarranged  his  glasses 
and  flushed  his  face  like  a  schoolgirl's,  but 
his  eyes  were  full  of  embarrassed  delight. 

"  There  !  there  !  "  he  said, "  we'll  take  care 
of  him  —  "  Then  suddenly  he  paused,  for 
the  real  significance  of  her  action  dawned 
upon  him. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  he  said,  in  disturbed  medita- 
tion, "  dear  me  !  " 

76 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      77 

She  suddenly  opened  the  bedroom  door  and 
went  in,  followed  by  Nic.  The  Regimental 
Surgeon  dropped  his  mouth  and  cheeks  in  his 
hand  reflectively,  his  eyes  showing  quaintly 
and  quizzically  above  the  glasses  and  his 
fingers. 

"Well,  well !  Well,  well !  "  he  said,  as 
if  he  had  encountered  a  difficulty.  "  It  —  it 
will  never  be  possible.  He  would  not  marry 
her !  "  he  added,  and  then,  turning,  went  ab- 
stractedly down  the  stairs. 

Ferrol  was  in  a  deep  sleep  when  Christine 
and  her  brother  entered  the  chamber.  Her 
face  turned  still  more  pale  when  she  saw 
him,  flushed,  and  became  pale  again.  There 
were  leaden  hollows  round  his  eyes,  and  his 
hair  was  matted  with  perspiration.  Yet  he 
was  handsome  —  and  helpless.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  She  turned  her  head  away 
from  her  brother,  and  went  softly  to  the 
window,  but  not  before  she  had  touched  the 
pale  hand  that  lay  nerveless  upon  the  coverlet. 

"  It's  not  feverish,"  she  said  to  Nic,  as  if 
in  necessary  explanation  of  the  act. 

She  stood  at  the  window  for  a  moment, 
looking  out,  then  said  : 

"  Come  here,  Nic,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  told  her  all  he  knew :  how  he  had 
come  to  the  old  house  by  appointment  with 


7  8      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

Ferrol ;  had  tried  to  get  into  the  storeroom, 
had  found  the  doors  bolted  j  had  heard  the 
noise  of  a  wild  animal  inside ;  had  run  out, 
tried  a  window,  at  last  wrenched  it  open  and 
found  Ferrol  in  a  dead  faint.  He  went  to 
the  table  and  brought  back  the  broken  bayonet. 

"  That's  all  he  had  to  fight  with,"  he  said. 
"  Fire  of  a  little  hell,  but  he  had  grit  —  after 
all !  " 

"  That's  all  he  had  to  fight  with  !  "  she  re- 
peated, as  she  untwisted  the  handkerchief 
from  the  hilt  end.  "Why  did  you  say  he 
had  true  grit  — l  after  all '  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  that  l  after  all '  ?  " 

"Well,  you  don't  expect  much  from  a 
man  with  only  one  lung  —  eh,  Girofl'ee  ?  " 

"  Courage  isn't  in  the  lungs,"  she  answered. 
Then  she  added,  "  Go  and  fetch  me  a  bottle 
of  brandy  —  I'm  going  to  bathe  his  hands 
and  feet  in  brandy  and  hot  water  as  soon  as 
he's  awake." 

"  Better  let  mother  do  that,  hadn't  you  ?  " 
he  asked  rather  hesitatingly,  as  he  moved 
towards  the  door. 

Her  eyes  snapped  fire.  "  Nic  —  Mon  Dieu  ! 
hear  the  nice  Nic  !  "  she  said.  "  The  dear 
Nic,  who  went  in  swimming  with  —  " 

She  said  no  more,  for  he  had  no  desire  to 
listen  to  an  account  of  his  misdeeds,  — 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      79 

which  were  not  a  few,  —  and  Christine  had 
a  galling  tongue. 

When  the  door  was  shut,  she  went  to  the 
bed,  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  it,  and  looked 
at  Ferrol  earnestly  and  sadly. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  dear,  dear !  "  she  said 
in  a  whisper,  "  you  look  so  handsome  and  so 
kind  as  you  lie  there  —  like  no  man  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life.  Who'd  have  fought  as  you 
fought  —  and  nearly  dead  !  Who'd  have  had 
brains  enough  to  know  just  what  to  do  !  My 
darling,  that  never  said  l  my  darling  '  to  me, 
nor  heard  me  call  you  that;  suppose  you 
haven't  a  dollar,  not  a  cent  in  the  world,  and 
suppose  you'll  never  earn  a  dollar  or  a  cent 
in  the  world,  what  difference  does  that  make 
to  me !  I  could  earn  it ;  and  I'd  give  more 
for  a  touch  of  your  finger  than  a  thousand 
dollars ;  and  more  for  a  month  with  you  than 
for  a  lifetime  with  the  richest  man  in  the 
world.  You  never  looked  cross  at  me,  or  at 
any  one,  and  you  never  say  an  unkind  thing, 
and  you  never  find  fault  when  you  suffer  so ! 
You  never  hurt  any  one,  I  know.  You 
never  hurt  Vanne  Castine  —  " 

Her  fingers  twitched  in  her  lap,  and  then 
clasped  very  tight,  as  she  went  on. 

"You  never  hurt  him,  and  yet  he's  tried 
to  kill  you  in  the  most  awful  way !  Perhaps 


8o      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

you'll  die  now  —  perhaps  you'll  die  to-night 

—  But  no,  no,  you  shall  not !  "  she  cried,  in 
sudden  fright  and  eagerness,  as  she  got  up  and 
leaned  over  him.     "  You  shall  not  die.     You 
shall  live  —  for  awhile  —  oh,  yes,  for  awhile 
yet,"  she  added,  with  a  pitiful  yearning  in  her 
voice,  "just  for  a  little  while,  —  till  you  love 
me,  and  tell  me  so  !     Oh,  how  could  that  devil 
try  to  kill  you  !  " 

She  suddenly  drew  herself  up. 

"  I'll  kill  him  and  his  bear  too  —  now,  now, 
while  you  lie  there  sleeping  !  And  when  you 
wake,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  done,  and  you'll 

—  you'll  love  me  then,  and  tell  me  so  perhaps. 
Yes,  yes,  I'll  — " 

She  said  no  more,  for  her  brother  entered 
with  the  brandy. 

"  Put  it  there,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
table.  "  You  watch  him  till  I  come.  I'll  be 
back  in  an  hour,  and  then  when  he  wakes, 
we'll  bathe  him  in  the  hot  water  and  brandy." 

"Who  told  you  about  hot  water  and 
brandy  ?  "  he  asked  her,  curiously. 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  passed  through 
the  door  and  down  the  hall  till  she  came  to 
Nic's  bedroom ;  she  went  in,  took  a  pair  of 
pistols  from  the  wall,  examined  them,  found 
they  were  fully  loaded,  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      81 

About  a  half-hour  later  she  appeared  before 
the  house  which  once  had  belonged  to  Vanne 
Castine.  The  mortgage  had  been  foreclosed, 
and  the  place  had  passed  into  the  hands  of 
Sophie  and  Magon  Farcinelle ;  but  Castine 
had  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  house  a  few 
days  before,  and  defied  any  one  to  put  him 
out. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
house.  There  were  no  curtains  to  the  win- 
dow, but  an  old  coat  had  been  hung  up  to 
serve  the  purpose,  and  light  shone  between  a 
sleeve  of  it  and  the  window-sill.  '  Putting  her 
face  close  to  the  window,  the  girl  could  see 
the  bear  in  the  corner,  clawing  at  its  chain 
and  tossing  its  head  from  side  to  side,  still 
panting,  and  angry  from  the  fight.  Now  and 
again  also  it  licked  the  bayonet-wound  between 
its  shoulders,  and  rubbed  its  lacerated  nose  on 
its  paw.  Castine  was  mixing  some  tar  and 
oil  in  a  pan  by  the  fire,  to  apply  to  the  still 
bleeding  wounds  of  his  Michael.  He  had  an 
ugly  grin  on  his  face. 

He  was  dressed  just  as  in  the  first  day  he 
appeared  in  the  village,  even  to  the  fur  cap ; 
and  presently,  as  he  turned  round,  he  began  to 
sing  the  monotonous  measure  to  which  the 
bear  had  danced.  It  had  at  once  a  soothing 
effect  upon  the  beast. 


82      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

After  he  had  gone  from  the  storeroom, 
leaving  Ferrol  dead,  as  he  thought,  it  was 
this  song  alone  which  had  saved  himself  from 
peril ;  for  the  beast  was  wild  from  pain,  fury, 
and  the  taste  of  blood.  As  soon  as  they  had 
cleared  the  farmyard,  he  had  begun  this  song, 
and  the  bear,  cowed  at  first  by  the  thrusts  of 
its  master's  pike,  quieted  to  the  well-known 
ditty. 

He  approached  the  bear  now,  and  stooping, 
put  some  of  the  tar  and  oil  upon  its  nose.  It 
sniffed,  and  rubbed  off  the  salve,  but  he  put 
more  on ;  then  he  rubbed  it  into  the  wound 
of  the  breast.  Once  the  animal  made  a  fierce 
snap  at  his  shoulder,  but  he  deftly  avoided  it, 
gave  it  a  thrust  with  a  sharp-pointed  stick,  and 
began  the  song  again.  Presently  he  rose,  and 
came  towards  the  fire. 

As  he  did  so,  he  heard  the  door  open. 
Turning  round  quickly,  he  saw  Christine 
standing  just  inside.  She  had  a  shawl  thrown 
round  her,  and  one  hand  was  thrust  in  the 
pocket  of  her  dress.  She  looked  from  him 
to  the  bear,  then  back  again  to  him. 

He  did  not  realize  why  she  had  come. 
For  a  moment,  in  his  excited  state,  he  almost 
thought  she  had  come  because  she  loved  him. 
He  had  seen  her  twice  since  his  return,  but 
each  time  she  would  say  nothing  to  him  fur- 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      83 

ther  than  that  she  wished  not  to  meet  or  to 
speak  to  him  at  all.  He  had  pleaded  with 
her,  had  grown  angry,  and  she  had  left  him. 
Who  could  tell  —  perhaps  she  had  come  to 
him  now  as  she  had  come  to  him  in  the  old 
days  !  He  dropped  the  pan  of  tar  and  oil. 

"  Chris !  "  he  said,  and  started  forward  to 
her. 

At  that  moment,  the  bear,  as  if  it  knew 
the  girl's  mission,  sprang  forward  with  a 
growl.  Its  huge  mouth  was  open,  and  all 
its  fierce  lust  for  killing  showed  again  in  its 
wild  lunges.  Castine  turned  with  an  oath, 
and  thrust  the  steel-set  pike  inta  its  leg.  It 
cowered  at  the  voice  and  the  punishment  for 
an  instant,  but  came  on  again. 

Castine  saw  the  girl  raise  a  pistol  and  fire 
twice  at  the  beast.  He  was  so  dumbfounded 
that  at  first  he  did  not  move.  Then  he  saw 
her  raise  another  pistol.  The  wounded  bear 
lunged  heavily  on  its  chain  —  once  —  twice 
—  in  a  devilish  rage,  and  as  Christine  fired 
the  third  time,  snapped  the  staple  loose  and 
sprang  forward. 

At  the  same  moment  Castine  threw  him- 
self in  front  of  the  girl,  and  caught  the  on- 
ward rush.  Calling  the  beast  by  its  name,  he 
grappled  with  it.  They  were  man  and  ser- 
vant no  longer,  but  two  animals  fighting  for 


84      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

their  lives.  Castine  drew  out  his  knife,  as 
the  bear,  raised  on  its  hind  legs,  crushed  him  in 
its  immense  arms,  and  still  calling  half  crazily, 
"  Michael !  Michael !  Down,  Michael !  "  he 
plunged  the  knife  twice  in  the  beast's  side. 

The  bear's  teeth  fastened  in  his  shoulder, 
the  horrible  pressure  of  its  arms  was  turning 
his  face  black ;  he  felt  death  coming ;  when 
another  pistol  shot  rang  out  close  to  his  own 
head  and  his  breath  suddenly  came  back.  He 
staggered  to  the  wall,  and  then  came  to  the 
floor  in  a  heap,  as  the  bear  lurched  down- 
wards and  fell  over  on  its  side,  dead. 

Christine  had  come  to  kill  the  beast  and 
perhaps  the  man.  The  man  had  saved  her 
life,  and  now  she  had  saved  his ;  and  together 
they  had  killed  the  bear  which  had  maltreated 
Tom  Ferrol. 

Castine's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  dead  beast. 
Everything  was  gone  from  him  now  —  even 
the  way  to  his  meagre  livelihood ;  and  the 
cause  of  it  all,  as  he  in  his  blind,  unnatural 
way  thought,  was  this  girl  before  him ;  this 
girl  and  her  people.  Her  back  was  turned 
towards  the  door.  Anger  and  passion  were 
both  at  work  in  him  at  once. 

"  Chris,"  he  said,  "  Chris,  let's  call  it  even 
—  eh  ?  Let's  make  it  up.  Chris,  ma  cberie^ 
don't  you  remember  when  we  used  to  meet, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      85 

and  was  fond  of  each  other?  Let's  make  it 
up  and  leave  here  —  now — to-night  —  eh? 
I'm  not  so  poor,  after  all !  I'll  be  paid  by 
Papineau,  the  leader  of  the  Rebellion  — " 
He  made  a  couple  of  unsteady  steps  towards 
her,  for  he  was  weak  yet.  "What's  the 
good  —  you're  bound  to  come  to  me  in  the 
end !  You've  got  the  same  kind  of  feelings 
in  you,  you've  —  " 

She  had  stood  still  at  first,  dazed  by  his 
words,  but  she  grew  angry  quickly,  and  was 
about  to  speak  as  she  felt,  when  he  went 
on: 

"  Stay  here  now  with  me.  Don't  go  back. 
Don't  you  remember  Shangois'  house?  Don't 
you  remember  that  night,  that  night  when  — 
ah,  Chris,  stay  here  —  !  " 

Her  face  was  flaming.  "I'd  rather  stay 
in  a  room  full  of  wild  beasts  like  that "  (she 
pointed  to  the  bear)  "  than  be  with  you  one 
minute  —  you  murderer  !  "  she  said,  with 
choking  anger. 

He  started  towards  her,  saying : 

"  By  the  blood  of  Joseph,  but  you'll  stay 
just  the  same,  and  —  " 

He  got  no  further,  for  she  threw  the  pistol 
in  his  face  with  all  her  might.  It  struck 
between  his  eyes  with  a  thud,  and  he  stag- 
gered back,  blind,  suffering  and  faint,  as  she 


86      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

threw  open  the  door  and  sped  away  in  the 
darkness. 

Reaching  the  Manor  safely,  she  ran  up  to 
her  room,  arranged  her  hair,  washed  her 
hands,  and  came  again  to  Ferrol's  bedroom. 
Knocking  softly,  she  was  admitted  by  Nic. 
There  was  an  unnatural  brightness  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Where've  you  been  ?  "  he  asked,  for  he 
noticed  this.  "  What've  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"I've  killed  the  bear  that  tried  to  kill 
him,"  she  answered. 

She  spoke  louder  than  she  meant.  Her 
voice  awakened  Ferrol. 

"Eh,  what,"  he  said,  "killed  the  bear, 
mademoiselle  !  —  my  dear  friend,"  he  added  : 
"  killed  the  bear  !  "  He  coughed  a  little,  and 
a  twinge  of  pain  crossed  over  his  face. 

She  nodded,  and  her  face  was  alight  with 
pleasure. 

She  lifted  up  his  head  and  gave  him  a  little 
drink  of  brandy.  His  fingers  closed  on  hers 
that  held  the  glass.  His  touch  thrilled  her. 

"  That's  good,  that's  easier,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"We're  going  to  bathe  you  in  brandy  and 
hot  water,  now  —  Nic  and  I,"  she  said. 

"  Bathe  me !  Bathe  me ! "  he  said,  in  amused 
consternation. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      87 
"  Hands  and  feet,"  Nic  explained. 

A  few  minutes  later  as  she  lifted  up  his 
head,  her  face  was  very  near  him ;  her  breath 
was  in  his  face.  Her  eyes  half  closed,  her 
fingers  trembled.  He  suddenly  drew  her  to 
him,  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  She  looked 
round  swiftly,  but  her  brother  had  not  noticed ! 


Chapter   X 

FERROL'S  recovery  from  his  injuries 
was  swifter  than  might  have  been 
expected.  As  soon  as  he  was  able 
to  move  about,  Christine  was  his  con- 
stant attendant.  She  had  made  herself  his 
nurse,  and  no  one  had  seriously  interfered, 
though  the  Cure  had  not  at  all  vaguely 
offered  a  protest  to  Madame  Lavilette.  But 
Madame  Lavilette  was  now  in  the  humour 
to  defy  or  evade  the  Cure,  whichever  seemed 
the  more  convenient  or  more  necessary.  To 
be  linked  by  marriage  with  the  nobility  would 
indeed  be  the  justification  of  all  her  long- 
baffled  hopes.  Meanwhile,  the  Parish  gos- 
siped, and  little  of  that  gossip  was  heard  at 
the  Manor  Casimbault. 

By  and  by  the  Cure  ceased  to  visit  the 
Manor,  but  the  Regimental  Surgeon  came 
often  and  sometimes  stayed  late.  He,  perhaps, 
could  have  given  Madame  Lavilette  the  best 
advice  and  warning,  but  in  truth  he  enjoyed 
what  he  considered  a  piquant  position.  Once, 
drawing  at  his  pipe  as  little  like  an  English- 

88 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      89 

man  as  possible,  he  tried  to  say  with  an 
English  accent,  "Amusing  and  awkward 
situation  !  "  but  he  said,  "  Damn  funny  and 
chic ! "  instead.  He  had  no  idea  that  any 
particular  harm  would  be  done  —  either  by 
love  or  marriage  ;  and  neither  seemed  certain. 

One  day  as  Ferrol,  entirely  convalescent, 
was  sitting  in  an  arbour  of  the  Manor  garden, 
half  asleep,  he  was  awakened  by  voices  near 
him. 

He  did  not  recognize  one  of  the  voices; 
the  other  was  Nic  Lavilette's. 

The  strange  voice  was  saying :  "  I  have 
collected  five  thousand  dollars  —  all  that  can 
be  got  in  the  two  counties.  It  is  at  the 
Seigneury.  Here  is  an  order  on  the  Seigneur 
Duhamel.  Go  there  in  two  days  and  get  the 
money.  You  will  carry  it  to  headquarters. 
These  are  General  Papineau's  orders.  You 
will  understand  that  your  men  —  " 

Ferrol  heard  no  more,  for  the  two  rebels 
passed  on,  their  voices  becoming  indistinct. 
He  sat  for  a  few  moments  moveless,  for  an 
idea  had  occurred  to  him  even  as  Papineau's 
agent  spoke. 

If  that  money  were  only  his  ! 

Five  thousand  dollars !  How  that  would 
ease  the  situation  !  The  money  belonged  to 
whom  ?  To  a  lot  of  rebels :  to  be  used  for 


90      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

making  war  against  the  British  Government. 
After  the  money  left  the  hands  of  the  men 
who  gave  it  —  Lavilette  and  the  rest  —  it 
wasn't  theirs.  It  belonged  to  a  cause.  Well, 
he  was  the  enemy  of  that  cause.  All  was 
fair  in  love  and  war ! 

There  were  two  ways  of  doing  it.  He 
could  waylay  Nicolas  as  he  came  from  the 
house  of  the  Old  Seigneur,  could  call  to  him 
to  throw  up  his  hands  in  good  highwayman 
fashion,  and,  well  disguised,  could  get  away 
with  the  money  without  being  discovered. 
Or  again,  he  could  follow  Nic  from  the 
Seigneury  to  the  Manor,  discover  where  he 
kept  the  money,  and  devise  a  plan  to  steal  it. 

For  some  time  he  had  given  up  smoking, 
but  now  as  a  sort  of  celebration  of  his  plan, 
he  opened  his  cigar-case,  and  finding  two 
cigars  left,  took  one  out  and  lighted  it. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  thieving 
is  a  nice  come-down,  I  must  say !  But  a 
man  has  to  live,  and  I'm  sick  of  charity  — 
sick  of  it ;  I've  had  enough  !  " 

He  puffed  his  cigar  briskly,  and  enjoyed 
the  forbidden  and  deadly  luxury  to  the  full. 

Presently  he  got  up,  took  his  stick,  came 
downstairs,  and  passed  out  into  the  gar- 
den. The  shoulder  which  had  been  lacer- 
ated by  the  bear  drooped  forward  somewhat, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      91 

and  seemed  smaller  than  the  other.  Although 
he  held  himself  as  erect  as  possible,  you  still 
could  have  lain  your  hand  in  the  hollow  of 
his  left  breast,  and  it  would  have  done  no 
more  than  give  it  a  natural  fulness.  Perhaps 
it  was  a  sort  of  vanity,  perhaps  a  kind  of 
courage,  which  made  him  resolutely  straighten 
himself,  in  spite  of  the  deadly  weight  drag- 
ging his  shoulder  down.  He  might  be  mel- 
ancholy in  secret,  but  in  public  he  was  gay 
and  hopeful  and  talked  of  everything  except 
himself.  On  that  interesting  topic  he  would 
permit  no  discussion.  Yet  there  came  often 
jugs  and  jars  from  friendly  people,  who  never 
spoke  to  him  of  his  disease,  —  they  were 
polite  and  sensitive,  these  humble  folk,  —  but 
sent  him  their  home-made  medicines  with 
assurances  scrawled  on  paper  that  "  it  would 
cure  Mr.  Ferrol's  cold,  absolument" 

Before  the  Lavilettes,  he  smiled,  and  re- 
ceived the  gifts  in  a  debonair  way,  sometimes 
making  whimsical  remarks.  At  the  same 
time,  the  jugs  and  jars  of  cordial  (whose 
contents  varied  from  whiskey,  molasses,  and 
boneset,  to  rum,  licorice,  gentian,  and  sarsa- 
parilla  roots)  he  carried  to  his  room ;  and  he 
religiously  tried  them  all  by  turn.  Each 
seemed  to  do  him  good  for  a  few  days,  then 
to  fail  of  effect ;  and  he  straightway  tried 


9 1      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

another,  with  renewed  hope  on  every  occa- 
sion, and  subsequent  disappointment.  He 
also  secretly  consulted  the  Regimental  Sur- 
geon, who  was  too  kind-hearted  to  tell  him 
the  truth ;  and  he  tried  his  hand  at  various 
remedies  of  his  own,  which  did  no  more 
than  to  loosen  the  cough  which  was  breaking 
down  his  strength. 

As  now,  he  often  walked  down  the  street 
swinging  his  cane,  not  as  though  he  needed 
it  for  walking,  but  merely  for  occupation 
and  companionship.  He  did  not  deceive  the 
villagers  by  these  sorrowful  deceptions,  but 
they  made  believe  he  did.  There  were  a 
few  people  who  did  not  like  him,  but  they 
were  of  that  cantankerous  minority  who  put 
thorns  in  the  bed  of  the  elect. 

To-day,  occupied  with  his  thoughts,  he 
walked  down  the  main  road,  then  presently 
diverged  on  a  side-road  which  led  past  Magon 
Farcinelle's  house  to  an  old  disused  mill, 
owned  by  Magon's  father.  He  paused  when 
he  came  opposite  Magon's  house,  and  glanced 
up  at  the  open  door.  He  was  tired,  and  the 
coolness  of  the  place  looked  inviting.  He 
passed  through  the  gate,  and  went  lightly  up 
the  path.  He  could  see  straight  through  the 
house,  into  the  harvest-fields  at  the  back. 
Presently  a  figure  crossed  the  lane  of  light 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      93 

and  made  a  cheerful  living  foreground  to 
the  blue  sky  beyond  the  farther  door.  The 
light  and  ardour  of  the  scene  gave  him  a 
thrill  of  pleasure,  and  hurried  his  footsteps. 
The  air  was  palpitating  with  sleepy  comfort 
round  him,  and  he  felt  a  new  vitality  pass 
into  him :  his  imagination  was  feeding  his 
enfeebled  body,  his  active  brain  was  giving 
him  a  fresh  counterfeit  of  health.  The 
hectic  flush  on  his  pale  face  deepened.  He 
came  to  the  wooden  steps  of  the  piazza  or 
stoop,  and  then  paused  a  moment,  as  if  for 
breath ;  but,  suddenly  conscious  of  what  he 
was  doing,  he  ran  briskly  up  the  steps, 
knocked  with  his  cane  upon  the  door-jamb, 
and,  without  waiting,  stepped  inside. 

Between  him  and  the  outer  door,  against 
the  ardent  blue  background,  stood  Sophie 
Farcinelle  —  the  English-faced  Sophie  —  a 
little  heavy,  a  little  slow,  but  with  the  large, 
long  profile  which  is  the  type  of  English 
beauty,  docile,  healthy,  cow-like.  Her  face 
within  her  sunbonnet  caught  the  reflected 
light,  and  the  pink  calico  of  her  dress  threw 
a  glow  over  her  cheeks  and  forehead,  and 
gave  a  good  gleam  to  her  eyes.  She  had  in 
her  hands  a  dish  of  strawberries.  It  was  a 
charming  picture  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  feelings  of  robustness  and  health 


94      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

were  mostly  a  reminiscence.  Yet  while  the 
first  impression  was  on  him,  he  contrasted 
Sophie  with  the  impetuous,  fiery-hearted 
Christine,  with  her  dramatic  Gallic  face  and 
blood ;  to  the  latter's  advantage,  in  spite  of 
the  more  harmonious  setting  of  this  picture. 
Sophie  was  in  place  in  this  old  farmhouse, 
with  its  dormer  windows,  with  the  weaver's 
loom  in  the  large  kitchen,  the  meatblock  by 
the  fireplace,  and  the  big  bread-tray  by  the 
stove,  where  the  yeast  was  as  industrious  as 
the  reapers  beyond  in  the  fields.  She  was 
in  keeping  with  the  chromo  of  the  Madonna 
and  the  Child  upon  the  wall,  with  the  sprig 
of  holy  palm  at  the  shrine  in  the  corner, 
with  the  old  King  Louis  blunderbuss  above 
the  chimney. 

Sophie  tried  to  take  off  her  sunbonnet  with 
one  hand,  but  the  knot  tightened,  and  it  tipped 
back  on  her  head,  giving  her  a  piquant  air. 
She  flushed. 

"  Oh,  monsieur! "  she  said  in  English,  "it's 
kind  of  you  to  call.  I  am  quite  glad  —  yes." 

Then  she  turned  round  to  put  the  straw- 
berries upon  a  table,  but  he  was  beside  her  in 
an  instant  and  took  the  dish  out  of  her  hands. 
Placing  it  on  the  table,  he  took  a  couple  of 
strawberries  in  his  fingers. 

"  May  I  ?  "  he  asked  in  French. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      95 

She  nodded  as  she  whipped  off  the  sun- 
bonnet,  and  replied  in  her  own  language : 

"  Oh,  yes,  as  many  as  you  want." 

He  bit  into  one,  but  got  no  further  with  it. 
Her  back  was  turned  to  him,  and  he  threw 
the  berry  out  of  the  window.  She  felt  rather 
than  saw  what  he  had  done.  She  saw  that 
he  was  fagged.  She  instantly  thought  of  a 
cordial  she  had  in  the  house,  the  gift  of  a 
nun  from  the  Ursuline  Convent  in  Quebec ; 
a  precious  little  bottle  which  she  had  kept 
for  the  anniversary  of  her  wedding  day.  If 
she  had  been  told  in  the  morning  that  she 
would  open  that  bottle  now,  and  for  a  stran- 
ger, she  probably  would  have  resented  the 
idea  with  scorn. 

His  disguised  weariness  still  exciting  her 
sympathy,  she  offered  him  a  chair. 

"  You  will  sit  down,  m'sieu'  ?  "  she  asked. 
"It  is  very  warm." 

She  did  not  say,  "You  look  very  tired." 
She  instinctively  felt  that  it  would  suggest 
the  delicate  state  of  his  health. 

The  chair  was  inviting  enough  with  its 
chintz  cover  and  wicker  seat,  but  he  would 
never  admit  fatigue.  He  threw  his  leg  half 
jauntily  over  the  end  of  the  table,  and  said : 

"No  —  no,  thanks,  I'd  rather  not  sit." 

His  forehead  was  dripping  with  perspira- 


96      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

tion.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and 
dried  it.  His  eyes  were  a  little  heavy,  but 
his  complexion  was  a  delicate  and  unnatural 
pink  and  white,  —  like  a  piece  of  fine  por- 
celain. It  was  a  face  without  care,  without 
vice,  without  fear,  and  without  morals.  For 
the  absence  of  vice  with  the  absence  of  mor- 
als are  not  incongruous  in  a  human  face. 

Sophie  went  into  another  room  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  brought  back  a  quaint  cut-glass 
bottle  of  cordial. 

"  It  is  very  good,"  she  said,  as  she  took  the 
cork  out,  — "  better  than  peach  brandy  or 
things  like  that." 

He  watched  her  pour  it  out  into  a  wine- 
glass, and  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  colour  and 
the  flow  of  it  he  was  certain  of  its  quality. 

"That  looks  like  good  stuff","  he  said,  as 
she  handed  him  a  glass  brimming  over,  "  but 
you  must  have  one  with  me ;  I  can't  drink 
alone,  you  know." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  if  you  please,  no,"  she 
answered  half  timidly,  flattered  by  the  glance 
of  his  eye :  a  look  of  flattery  which  was 
part  of  his  stock-in-trade.  It  had  got  him 
into  trouble  all  his  life. 

"Ah,  madame,  but  I  plead  yes,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  little  encouraging  nod  towards 
her.  "  Come,  let  me  pour  it  for  you/' 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      97 

He  took  the  odd  little  bottle  and  poured 
her  glass  as  full  as  his  own. 

"If  Magon  were  only  here  —  he'd  like 
some,  I  know !  "  she  said,  vaguely  struggling 
with  a  sense  of  impropriety,  though  why,  she 
did  not  know ;  for,  on  the  surface,  this  was 
only  dutiful  hospitality  to  a  distinguished 
guest.  The  impropriety  probably  lay  in  the 
sensations  roused  by  this  visit  and  this  vis- 
itor. "I  intended  —  " 

"Oh,  we  must  try  to  get  along  without 
Monsieur,"  he  said,  with  a  little  cough ; 
"  he's  a  busy  gentleman." 

The  rather  rude  and  flippant  sentiment 
seemed  hardly  in  keeping  with  the  fatal 
token  of  his  disease. 

"  Of  course  he's  far  away  out  there  in  the 
field,  mowing,"  she  said,  as  if  in  apology  for 
something  or  other. 

"Yes,  he's  ever  so  far  away,"  was  his 
reply,  as  he  turned  half  lazily  to  the  open 
doorway. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  The  eyes 
of  both  were  on  the  distant  harvest  fields. 
Vaguely,  not  decisively,  the  hazy,  indolent  air 
of  summer  was  broken  by  the  lazy  droning 
of  the  locusts  and  grasshoppers.  A  driver 
was  calling  to  his  oxen  down  the  dusty  road, 
the  warning  bark  of  a  dog  came  across  the 


98      The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

fields  from  the  gap  in  the  fence  which  he 
was  tending,  and  the  blades  of  the  scythes 
made  three-quarter  circles  of  light  as  the 
mowers  travelled  down  the  wheat  fields. 

When  their  eyes  met  again,  the  glasses  of 
cordial  were  at  their  lips.  He  held  her  look 
by  the  intentional  warmth  and  meaning  of 
his  own,  drinking  very  slowly  to  the  last 
drop ;  and  then,  like  a  ban  vivant,  drew  a 
breath  of  air  through  his  open  mouth,  and 
nodded  his  satisfaction. 

"  By  Jove  !  but  it  is  good  stuff,"  he  said. 
"  Here's  to  the  nun  that  made  it,"  he  added, 
making  a  motion  to  drink  from  the  empty 
glass. 

Sophie  had  not  drunk  all  her  cordial.  At 
least  one-third  of  it  was  still  in  the  glass. 
She  turned  her  head  away,  a  little  dismayed 
by  his  toast. 

"  Come,  that's  not  fair,"  he  said.  "  That 
elixir  shouldn't  be  wasted.  Viola,  every  drop 
of  it  now !  "  he  added,  with  an  insinuating 
smile  and  gesture. 

"  Oh,  monsieur !  "  she  said  in  protest,  but 
drank  it  off. 

He  still  held  the  empty  glass  in  his  hand, 
twisting  it  round  musingly. 

"  A  little  more,  monsieur  ? "  she  asked, 
"just  a  little  !  " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes      99 

Perhaps  she  was  surprised  that  he  did  not 
hesitate.  He  instantly  held  out  his  glass. 

"  It  was  made  by  a  saint ;  the  result  should 
be  health  and  piety  —  I  need  both,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  note  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

"  So,  once  again,  my  giver  of  good  gifts  — 
to  you  !  "  He  raised  his  glass  again,  toasting 
her,  but  paused.  "  No,  this  won't  do ;  you 
must  join  me,"  he  added. 

"  Oh,  no,  monsieur,  no !  It  is  not  pos- 
sible. I  feel  it  now  in  my  head  and  in  all 
of  me.  Oh,  I  feel  so  warm  all  through,  and 
my  heart  it  beats  so  very  fast !  Oh,  no, 
monsieur,  no  more  !  " 

Her  cheeks  were  glowing,  and  her  eyes 
had  become  softer  and  more  brilliant  under 
the  influence  of  the  potent  liqueur. 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  let  you  off  this  time,  but 
next  time,  next  time,  remember  !  " 

He  raised  the  glass  once  more,  and  let  the 
cordial  drain  down  lazily. 

He  had  said  "next  time"  —  she  noticed 
that.  He  seemed  very  fond  of  this  strong 
liqueur.  She  placed  the  bottle  on  the  table, 
her  own  glass  beside  it. 

"  For  a  minute,  a  little  minute,"  she  said 
suddenly,  and  went  quickly  into  the  other 
room. 

He  coolly  picked  up  the  bottle  of  liqueur, 


ioo    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

poured  his  glass  full  once  more,  and  began 
drinking  it  off  in  little  sips.  Presently  he 
stood  up ;  and  throwing  back  his  shoulder 
with  a  little  ostentation  of  health,  he  went 
over  to  the  chintz-covered  chair,  and  sat 
down  in  it.  His  mood  was  contented  and 
brisk.  He  held  up  the  glass  of  liqueur  against 
the  sunlight. 

44  Better  than  any  Benedictine  I  ever 
tasted,"  he  said.  "A  dozen  bottles  of  that 
would  cure  this  beastly  cold  of  mine.  By 
Jove  !  it  would.  It's  as  good  as  the  Gardi- 
vani  I  got  that  blessed  day  when  we  officers 
of  the  Ninetieth  breakfasted  with  the  King 
of  Savoy."  He  laughed  to  himself  at  the 
reminiscence.  "  What  a  day  that  was ! 
what  a  stunning  day  that  was  !  " 

He  was  still  smiling,  his  white  teeth  show- 
ing humorously,  when  Sophie  again  entered 
the  room.  He  had  forgotten  (|er,  forgotten 
all  about  her.  As  she  came  in,  he  made  a 
quick,  courteous  movement  to  rise — too 
quick ;  for  a  sharp  pain  shot  through  his 
breast,  and  he  grew  pale  about  the  lips.  But 
he  made  essay  to  stand  up  lightly,  neverthe- 
less. She  saw  his  paleness,  came  quickly  to 
him,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  gently  force 
him  back  into  his  seat,  but  as  instantly  de- 
cided not  to  notice  his  indisposition,  and 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    101 

turned  towards  the  table  instead.  Taking 
the  bottle  of  cordial,  she  brought  it  over,  and 
not  looking  at  him,  said: 

"  Just  one  more  little  glass,  monsieur  ? " 
She  had  in  her  other  hand  a  plate  of  seed- 
cakes. "  But  yes,  you  must  sit  down  and 
eat  a  cake,"  she  added  adroitly.  "  They  are 
very  nice,  and  I  made  them  myself.  We 
are  very  fond  of  them ;  and  once  when  the 
Bishop  stayed  at  our  house,  he  liked  them 
also." 

Before  he  sat  down  he  drank  off  the  whole 
of  the  cordial  in  the  glass. 

She  took  a  chair  near  him,  and  breaking  a 
seed-cake  began  eating  it.  His  tongue  was 
loosened  now,  and  he  told  her  what  he  was 
smiling  at  when  she  came  into  the  room. 
She  was  amused,  and  there  was  a  little  awe 
to  her  interest  also.  To  think :  she  was 
sitting  here,  talking  easily  to  a  man  who  had 
eaten  at  kings'  tables  —  with  the  King  !  Yet 
she  was  at  ease  too  —  since  she  had  drunk 
the  cordial.  It  had  acted  on  her  like  some 
philter.  He  begged  that  she  would  go  on 
with  her  work ;  and  she  got  the  dish  of 
strawberries,  and  began  stemming  them  while 
he  talked. 

It  was  much  easier  talking  or  listening  to 
him  while  she  was  so  occupied.  She  had 


IO2    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  her  life. 
She  was  not  clever  like  Christine,  but  she 
had  admiration  of  ability,  and  was  obedient 
to  the  charm  of  temperament.  Whenever 
Ferrol  had  met  her,  he  had  lavished  little 
attentions  on  her,  had  said  things  to  her  that 
carried  weight  far  beyond  their  intention. 
She  had  been  pleased  at  the  time,  but  they 
had  had  no  permanent  effect.  Now  every- 
thing he  said  had  a  different  influence :  she 
felt  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  not  easy 
to  look  into  his  eyes,  and  as  if  she  never 
could  again  without  betraying,  she  knew 
not  what. 

So  they  sat  there,  he  talking,  she  listening, 
and  questioning  now  and  then.  She  had 
placed  the  bottle  of  liqueur  and  the  seed- 
cakes at  his  elbow,  on  the  window-sill,  and, 
as  if  mechanically,  he  poured  out  a  glassful, 
and  after  a  little  time,  still  another,  and  at 
last,  apparently  unconsciously,  poured  her 
out  one  also,  and  handed  it  to  her.  She 
shook  her  head,  he  still  held  the  glass  poised, 
her  eyes  met  his,  she  made  a  feeble  sort  of 
protest,  then  took  the  glass  and  drank  off  the 
liqueur  in  little  sips. 

u  Gad,  that  puts  fat  on  the  bones,  and 
gives  the  gay  heart !  "  he  said.  "  Doesn't  it, 
though?" 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    103 

She  laughed  quietly.  Her  nature  was 
warm,  and  she  had  the  animal-like  fondness 
for  physical  ease  and  content. 

"It's  as  if  there  wasn't  another  stroke 
of  work  to  do  in  the  world  !  "  she  answered, 
and  sat  contentedly  back  in  her  chair,  the 
strawberries  in  her  lap.  Her  fingers,  stained 
with  red,  lay  beside  the  bowl.  All  the 
strings  of  conscious  duty  were  loose,  and 
some  of  them  were  flying.  The  bumble-bee 
that  flew  in  at  the  door  and  boomed  about 
the  room,  contributed  to  the  day-dream. 

She  never  quite  knew  how  it  happened 
that  a  moment  later  he  was  bending  over 
the  back  of  her  chair,  with  her  face  up- 
turned to  his,  and  his  lips  — With  that  touch 
thrilling  her,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and 
turned  away  from  him,  towards  the  table. 
Her  face  was  glowing  like  a  peony,  and  a 
troubled  light  came  into  her  eyes.  He  came 
over  to  her,  after  a  moment,  and  spoke  over 
her  shoulders,  as  he  just  touched  her  waist 
with  his  fingers. 

"  A  la  bonne  heure  —  Sophie  !  " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  —  it  isn't  right,"  she  said, 
her  body  slightly  inclining  from  him. 

"One  minute  out  of  a  whole  life  —  What 
does  it  matter !  Ce  ne  fait  rien  !  Good-bye  — 
Sophie !  " 


IO4    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

Now  she  inclined  towards  him.  He  was 
about  to  put  his  arms  round  her,  when  he 
heard  the  distant  sound  of  horse's  hoofs. 
He  let  her  go,  and  turned  towards  the  front 
door.  Through  it  he  saw  Christine  driving 
up  the  road.  She  would  pass  the  house. 

"  Good-bye  —  Sophie,"  he  said  again,  over 
her  shoulder,  softly ;  and,  picking  up  his  hat 
and  stick,  he  left  the  house. 

Her  eyes  followed  him  dreamily,  as  he 
went  up  the  road.  She  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
the  trance  of  the  passionate  moment  still  on 
her,  and  began  to  brood.  She  vaguely  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  buggy  —  Christine's  —  as  it 
passed  the  house,  and  her  thoughts  drifted 
into  a  new-discovered  hemisphere  where  life 
was  all  a  somnolent  sort  of  joy  and  bodily  love. 

She  was  roused,  at  last,  by  a  song  which 
came  floating  across  the  fields.  The  air  she 
knew,  and  the  voice  she  knew.  The  chanson 
was,  "  Le  Voleur  de  grand  Chemin  !  "  The 
voice  was  her  husband's  ! 

She  knew  the  words,  too  ;  and  even  before 
she  could  hear  them,  they  were  fitting  into 
the  air: 


«'  <$ui  va  la  !     There's  some  one  in  the  orchard, 

There's  a  robber  in  the  apple-trees  ; 
S^ui  -va  la !     He  is  creeping  through  the  doorway. 
Ab)  allez  -voits  en  !     Va  f  tn  !  " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    105 

She  hurriedly  put  away  the  cordial  and  the 
seed-cakes.  She  picked  up  the  bottle.  It 
was  empty.  Ferrol  had  drunk  near  half-a- 
pint  of  the  liqueur !  She  must  get  another 
bottle  of  it  somehow.  It  would  never  do 
for  Magon  to  know  that  the  precious  anni- 
versary cordial  was  all  gone  —  in  this  way  ! 

She  hurried  towards  the  other  room.  The 
voice  of  the  farrier-farmer  was  more  distinct 
now.  She  could  hear  clearly  the  words  of 
the  song.  She  looked  out.  The  square- 
shouldered,  blue-shirted  Magon  was  skirting 
the  turnip  field,  making  a  short  cut  home. 
His  straw  hat  was  pushed  back  on  his  head, 
his  scythe  was  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  cut 
the  last  swathe  in  the  field  —  now  for  Sophie  ! 
He  was  not  handsome,  and  she  had  known 
that  always  ;  but  he  seemed  rough  and  coarse 
to-day.  She  did  not  notice  how  well  he  fitted 
in  with  everything  about  him  —  he  was  so 
healthy  that  even  three  glasses  of  that  cordial 
would  have  sent  him  reeling  to  bed  ! 

As  she  passed  into  the  dining-room,  the 
words  of  the  song  followed  her  : 

"  £}ui  va  la  !     If  you  please,  I  own  the  mansion, 

And  this  is  my  grandfather's  gun  ! 
Sjui  -va  la  !     Now  you're  a  dead  man,  robber  — 
Ah)  alien  voui  en  !   Va  fen  !  " 


Chapter  XI 

"  "•"    SAW  you    coming,"    Ferrol  said,  as 
Christine  stopped  the  buggy. 

JL      "You  have  been  to  see  Magon  and 
Sophie  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  for  a  minute,"  he  answered. 
"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Just  for  a  drive,"  she  replied.  "  Come, 
won't  you  ? " 

He  got  in,  and  she  drove  on. 

"  Where  were  you  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  to  the  old  mill,"  was  his  reply.  "  I 
wanted  a  little  walk,  then  a  rest." 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  looking  from 
a  window  of  the  mill,  out  upon  the  great  wheel 
which  had  done  all  the  work  the  past  genera- 
tions had  given  it  to  do,  and  was  now  drop- 
ping into  decay,  as  it  had  long  dropped  into 
disuse.  Moss  had  gathered  on  the  great 
paddles,  many  of  them  were  broken,  and  the 
debris  had  been  carried  away  by  the  freshets 
of  Spring  and  the  floods  of  Autumn. 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  Presently 
she  looked  up  at  him. 

106 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    107 

"You're  much  better  to-day,"  she  said, 
"better  than  you've  been  since  —  since  that 
night !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  answered ;  "  right 
as  can  be." 

He  suddenly  turned  on  her,  put  his  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  said  : 

"Come  now,  tell  me  what  there  was 
between  you  and  Vanne  Castine  —  once  upon 
a  time." 

"  Oh,  he  was  in  love  with  me  five  years 
ago,"  she  said. 

"  And  five  years  ago  you  were  in  love  with 
him,  eh  ? " 

"  How  dare  you  say  that  to  me ! "  she 
answered.  "  I  never  was.  I  always  hated 
him." 

She  told  her  lie  with  unscrupulous  direct- 
ness. He  did  not  believe  her,  but  what  did 
that  matter  !  It  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
put  her  at  a  disadvantage,  and,  strangely 
enough,  he  did  not  feel  any  contempt  for 
her  because  she  told  the  lie,  nor  because  she 
had  once  cared  for  Castine.  Probably  in 
those  days  she  had  never  known  anybody 
who  was  very  much  superior  to  Castine. 
She  was  in  love  with  him  now ;  that  was 
enough,  or  nearly  enough,  and  there  was  no 
particular  reason  why  he  should  demand  more 


io8    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

from  her  than  she  demanded  from  him.  She 
was  lying  to  him  now  because,  well,  because 
she  loved  him.  Like  the  majority  of  men, 
when  women  who  love  them  have  lied  to 
them,  they  have  seen  in  it  a  compliment  as 
strong  as  the  act  was  weak.  It  was  more  to 
him  now  that  this  girl  should  love  him,  than 
that  she  should  be  upright,  or  moral,  or  truth- 
ful. Such  is  the  egotism  and  vanity  of 
man. 

"  Well,  he  owes  me  several  years  of  life ; 
I  put  in  a  bad  hour  that  night." 

He  knew  that  "  several  years  of  life  "  was 
a  misstatement,  but  then  they  were  both 
sinners. 

Her  eyes  flashed,  she  stamped  her  foot, 
and  her  fingers  clinched. 

"Oh!  I  wish  I'd  killed  him  when  I 
killed  his  bear  !  "  she  said. 

Then  excitedly  she  described  the  scene 
exactly  as  it  occurred.  He  admired  the 
dramatic  force  of  it.  He  thrilled  at  the  direct 
simplicity  of  the  tale.  He  saw  Vanne  Castine 
in  the  fore-arms  of  the  huge  beast,  with  his 
eyes  bulging  from  his  head,  his  face  becoming 
black,  and  he  saw  blind  justice  in  that  death 
grip.  And  then  Christine's  pistol  at  the  bear's 
head,  and  the  shoulder  in  the  teeth  of  the  beast ! 

"  By  the   Lord   Harry ! "    he  said,  as  she 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    109 

stood  panting  with  her  hands  fixed  in  the  last 
little  dramatic  gesture,  "  what  a  little  spit- 
fire and  brick  you  are  !  " 

All  at  once  he  caught  her  away  from  the 
open  window  and  drew  her  to  him.  Whether 
what  he  said  that  moment  and  what  he  did 
then  would  have  been  said  and  done  if  it 
were  not  for  the  liqueur  he  had  drunk  at 
Sophie's  house,  would  be  hard  to  tell ;  but 
the  sum  of  it  was  that  she  was  his,  and  he 
was  hers.  She  was  to  be  his  until  the  end 
of  all,  no  matter  what  the  end  might  be. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  face  glowing, 
her  bosom  beating  —  beating,  every  pulse  in 
her  tingling ! 

"You  mean  that  you  love  me,  and  that  — 
that  you  want  —  to  marry  me,"  she  said  ;  and 
then,  with  a  fervent  impulse  she  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  again 
and  again  ! 

The  directness  of  her  question  dumb- 
founded him  for  the  moment;  but  what  she 
suggested  (though  it  might  be  selfish  in  him 
to  agree  to  it)  would  be  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  to  him.  So  he  lied  to  her, 
and  said : 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  meant.  But  then,  to 
tell  you  the  sober  truth,  I'm  as  poor  as  a 
church  mouse  !  " 


no    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

He  paused.  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  sudden  fear  in  her  face. 

"You're  not  married  ? "  she  asked,  "you're 
not  married  ? "  Then  breaking  off  suddenly : 
"  I  don't  care  if  you  are,  I  don't !  I  love  you 
—  love  you  !  Nobody  would  look  after  you 
as  I  would.  I  don't,  no,  I  don't  care! " 

She  drew  up  closer  and  closer  to  him. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that  I  was  married," 
he  said,  "  I  meant  —  what  you  know  —  that 
my  life  isn't  worth,  perhaps,  a  ten-days 
purchase !  " 

Her  face  became  pale  again. 

"  You  can  have  my  life ! "  she  said ; 
"have  it  just  as  long  as  you  live,  and  I'll 
make  you  live  a  year  —  yes,  I'll  make  you  live 
ten  years  !  Love  can  do  anything,  it  can  do 
everything.  We'll  be  married  to-morrow  !  " 

"That's  rather  difficult,"  he  answered. 
"You  see,  you're  a  Catholic,  and  I'm  a 
Protestant,  and  they  wouldn't  marry  us  here, 
I'm  afraid;  at  least  not  at  once,  perhaps  not 
at  all !  You  see,  I  —  I've  only  one  lung  !  " 

He  had  never  spoken  so  frankly  of  his 
illness  before. 

"Well,  we  can  go  over  the  border  into 
the  English  province  —  into  Ontario,"  she 
answered.  "  Don't  you  see  ?  It's  only  a  few 
miles'  drive  to  a  village.  I  can  go  over  one 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    1 1 1 

day,  get  the  license,  then  a  couple  of  days 
after  we  can  go  over  together  and  be  married ! 
And  then,  then  —  " 

He  smiled.  "Well,  then  it  won't  make 
much  difference,  will  it  ?  We'll  have  to  fit 
in  one  way  or  another,  eh  ?  " 

"We  could  be  married  afterwards  by  the 
Cure,  if  everybody  made  a  fuss.  The  Bishop 
would  give  us  a  dispensation.  It's  a  great  sin 
to  marry  a  heretic,  but  —  " 

"  But  love  —  eh,  ma  clgale  ?  "  Then  he 
took  her  eagerly,  tenderly  into  his  arms ;  and 
probably  he  had  then  the  best  moment  in  his 
life. 

Sophie  Farcinelle  saw  them  driving  back 
together.  She  was  sitting  at  early  supper 
with  Magon,  when,  raising  her  head  at  the 
sound  of  wheels,  she  saw  Christine  laughing, 
and  Ferrol  leaning  affectionately  towards 
her.  Ferrol  had  forgotten  herself  and  the  in- 
cident of  the  afternoon.  It  meant  nothing 
to  him.  With  her,  however,  it  was  vital : 
it  marked  a  change  in  her  life.  Her  face 
flushed,  her  hands  trembled,  and  she  arose 
hurriedly  and  went  to  get  something  from 
the  kitchen,  that  Magon  might  not  see  her 
face. 


Chapter  XII 

TWENTY  men   had   suddenly  disap- 
peared from  Bonaventure  on  the  day 
that  Ferrol  visited  Sophie  Farcinelle, 
and  it  was  only  the  next   morning 
that    the  cause   of  their  disappearance  was 
generally  known. 

There  had  been  many  rumours  abroad  that 
a  detachment  of  men  from  the  Parish  were 
to  join  Papineau.  The  Rebellion  was  to  be 
publicly  declared  on  a  certain  date  near  at 
hand,  but  nothing  definite  was  known,  and 
because  the  Cure  condemned  any  revolt  against 
British  rule,  in  spite  of  the  evils  the  Province 
suffered  from  bad  government,  every  recruit 
who  joined  Nic  Lavilette's  standard  was  sworn 
to  secrecy.  Louis  Lavilette  and  his  wife 
knew  nothing  of  their  son's  complicity  in  the 
rumoured  revolt  —  one's  own  people  are  gen- 
erally the  last  to  learn  of  one's  misdeeds. 
Madame  would  have  been  sorely  frightened 
and  chagrined  if  she  had  known  the  truth,  for 
she  was  partly  English.  Besides,  if  the  Rebel- 
lion did  not  succeed,  disgrace  must  come,  and 

112 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    113 

then  good-bye  to  the  progress  of  the  Lavi- 
lettes, and  good-bye,  maybe,  to  her  son  ! 

In  spite  of  disappointments  and  rebuffs  in 
many  quarters,  she  still  kept  faith  with  her 
ambitions,  and,  fortunately  for  herself,  she 
did  not  see  the  abject  failure  of  many  of  her 
schemes.  Some  of  the  gentry  from  the  neigh- 
bouring Parishes  had  called,  chiefly,  she  was 
aware,  because  of  Mr.  Ferrol.  She  was  build- 
ing the  superstructure  of  her  social  ambitions 
on  that  foundation  for  the  present.  She  told 
Louis  sometimes,  with  tears  of  joy  in  her 
eyes,  that  a  special  Providence  had  sent  Mr. 
Ferrol  to  them,  and  she  did  not  know  how 
to  be  grateful  enough.  He  suggested  a  gift 
to  the  church  in  token  of  gratitude,  but  her 
thanksgiving  did  not  take  that  form. 

Nic  was  entirely  French  at  heart,  and  ig- 
nored his  mother's  nationality.  He  resented 
the  English  blood  in  his  veins,  and  atoned 
for  it  by  increased  loyalty  to  his  French 
origin.  This  was  probably  not  so  much  a 
principle  as  a  fancy.  He  had  a  kind  of  im- 
portance also  in  the  Parish,  and  in  his  own 
eyes,  because  he  made  as  much  in  three 
months  by  buying  and  selling  horses  as  most 
people  did  in  a  year.  The  respect  of  Bona- 
venture  for  his  ability  was  considerable  — 
and  though  it  had  no  marked  admiration  for 


H4    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

his  character,  it  appreciated  his  drolleries,  and 
was  attracted  by  his  high  spirits.  He  had 
always  been  erratic,  so  that  when  he  disap- 
p'eared  for  days  at  a  time  no  one  thought 
anything  of  it,  and  when  he  came  home  to 
the  Manor  at  unearthly  hours  it  created  no 
peculiar  notice. 

He  had  chosen  very  good  men  for  his 
recruits ;  for  though  they  talked  much  among 
themselves,  they  drew  a  cordon  of  silence 
round  their  little  society  of  revolution.  They 
vanished  in  the  night,  and  Nic  with  them ; 
but  he  returned  the  next  afternoon  when  the 
fire  of  excitement  was  at  its  height.  As  he 
rode  through  the  streets,  people  stopped  him 
and  poured  out  questions,  but  he  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  gave  no  information,  and 
neither  denied  nor  affirmed  anything. 

Acting  under  orders,  he  had  marched  his 
company  to  make  conjunction  with  other 
companies  at  a  point  in  the  mountains  twenty 
miles  away,  but  had  himself  returned  to  get 
the  five  thousand  dollars  gathered  by  Papi- 
neau's  agent.  Now  that  the  Rebellion  was 
known,  Nicolas  intended  to  try  and  win  his 
father  and  his  father's  money  and  horses  over 
to  the  cause. 

Because  Ferrol  was  an  Englishman  he 
made  no  confidant  of  him,  and  because  he 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    115 

was  a  dying  man  he  saw  in  him  no  menace 
to  the  cause.  Besides,  was  not  Ferrol  prac- 
tically dependent  upon  their  hospitality  ?  If 
he  had  guessed  that  his  friend  knew  accu- 
rately of  his  movements  since  the  night  he 
had  seen  Vanne  Castine  hand  him  his  com- 
mission from  Papineau,  he  would  have  felt 
less  secure :  for,  after  all,  love  (or  prejudice) 
of  country  is  a  principle  in  the  minds  of 
most  men  deeper  than  any  other.  When  all 
other  morals  go,  this  latent  tendency  to  stand 
by  the  blood  of  his  clan  is  the  last  moral  in 
man  that  bears  the  test  without  treason.  If 
he  had  known  that  Ferrol  had  written  to  the 
Commandant  at  Quebec,  telling  him  of  the 
imminence  of  the  Rebellion,  and  the  secret 
recruiting  and  drilling  going  on  in  the  Parishes, 
his  popular  comrade  might  have  paid  a  high 
price  for  his  disclosure. 

That  morning  at  sunrise,  Christine,  saying 
she  was  going  upon  a  visit  to  the  next  Parish, 
started  away  upon  her  mission  to  the  English 
province.  Ferrol  had  urged  her  to  let  him 
go,  but  she  had  refused.  He  had  not  yet 
fully  recovered  from  his  adventure  with  the 
bear,  she  said.  Then  he  said  they  might  go 
together,  but  she  insisted  that  she  must  make 
the  way  clear,  and  have  everything  ready. 
They  might  go  and  find  the  minister  away, 


ii6    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

and  then  —  voila  what  a  chance  for  cancan  f 
So  she  went  alone. 

From  his  window  he  watched  her  depart, 
and  as  she  drove  away  in  the  fresh  morning 
he  fell  to  thinking  what  it  might  seem  like 
if  he  had  to  look  forward  to  ten,  twenty,  or 
forty  years  with  just  such  a  woman  as  his 
wife.  Now  she  was  at  her  best  (he  did  not 
deceive  himself),  but  in  ten  years  or  less  the 
effects  of  her  early  life  would  show  in  many 
ways.  She  had  once  loved  Vanne  Castine  ! 
and  now  vanity  and  cowardice,  or  unscrupu- 
lousness  made  her  lie  about  it !  He  would 
have  her  at  her  best  —  a  young,  vigorous, 
radiant  nature  —  for  his  short  life,  and  then 
good-bye,  my  lover,  good-bye  !  Selfish  ?  Of 
course.  But  she  would  rather  —  she  had  said 
it  —  have  him  for  the  time  he  had  to  live  than 
not  at  all.  Position  ?  What  was  his  posi- 
tion ?  Cast  off  by  his  family,  forgotten  by 
his  old  friends,  in  debt,  penniless  —  let  posi- 
tion be  hanged !  Self-preservation  was  the 
first  law !  What  was  the  difference  between 
this  girl  and  himself?  Morals?  She  was 
better  than  himself,  anyhow.  She  had  genu- 
ine passions,  and  her  sins  would  be  in  behalf 
of  those  genuine  passions.  He  had  kicked 
over  the  moral  traces  many  a  time  from  abso- 
lute selfishness  !  She  had  clean  blood  in  her 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    117 

veins,  she  was  good-looking,  she  had  a  quick 
wit,  she  was  an  excellent  horsewoman  — 
what  then  !  If  she  wasn't  so  "  well-bred," 
that  was  a  matter  of  training  and  oppor- 
tunity which  had  never  quite  been  hers. 
What  was  he  himself?  A  loafer,  "a  deuced 
unfortunate  loafer,"  but  still  a  loafer.  He 
had  no  trade  and  no  profession.  Confound 
it,  how  much  better  off,  and  how  much  bet- 
ter in  reality,  were  these  people  who  had 
trades  and  occupations  !  In  the  vigour  and 
lithe  activity  of  that  girl's  body  was  the  force 
of  generations  of  honest  workers.  He  ar- 
gued and  thought  as  every  intelligent  man  in 
his  position  would  have  done  —  until  he  had 
come  into  the  old  life  again,  and  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  old  advantages  and  temptations ! 

Christine  pulled  up  for  a  moment  on  a  lit- 
tle hill,  and  waved  her  whip.  He  shook  his 
handkerchief  from  the  window.  That  was 
their  pre-arranged  signal.  He  shook  it  until 
she  had  driven  away  beyond  the  hill  and  was 
lost  to  sight,  and  still  stood  there  at  the 
window  looking  out. 

Presently  Madame  Lavilette  appeared  in 
the  garden  below,  and  he  was  sure  from  the 
way  she  glanced  up  at  the  window,  and  from 
her  position  in  the  shrubbery,  that  she  had 
seen  the  signal.  She  did  not  look  displeased. 


1 1 8    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

On  the  contrary,  though  an  alliance  with 
Christine  now  seemed  unlikely  because  of 
the  state  of  his  health,  and  his  religion  and 
nationality,  it  pleased  her  to  think  that  it 
might  have  been. 

When  she  had  passed  into  the  house,  Ferrol 
sat  down  on  the  broad  window-sill,  and  looked 
out  the  way  Christine  had  gone.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  humiliation  of  his  position, 
and  how  it  would  be  more  humiliating  when 
he  married  Christine,  should  the  Lavilettes 
turn  against  them  —  which  was  quite  pos- 
sible. And  from  outside :  the  whole  Parish 
(a  few  excepted)  sympathized  with  the  Rebel- 
lion, and  once  the  current  of  hatred  of  the 
English  set  in,  he  would  be  swept  down  by 
it.  There  were  only  three  English  people  in 
the  place.  Then  if  it  became  known  that 
he  had  given  information  to  the  authorities, 
his  life  would  be  less  uncertain  than  it  was 
just  now.  Yet,  confound  the  dirty  lot  of  lit- 
tle rebels,  it  served  them  right !  He  couldn't 
sit  by  and  see  a  revolt  against  British  rule 
without  raising  a  hand. 

Warn  Nic  ?  To  what  good  ?  The  result 
would  be  just  the  same.  But  if  harm  came 
to  this  intended  brother-in-law  —  well,  why 
borrow  trouble  ?  He  was  not  the  Lord  in 
Heaven  that  he  could  have  everything  as  he 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes     119 

wanted  it !  It  was  a  toss-up,  and  he  would 
see  the  sport  out  —  "  have  to  cough  your  way 
through,  my  boy  !  "  he  said,  as  he  swayed 
back  and  forth,  hacking  at  the  hard  phlegm 
in  his  throat. 

As  he  had  said  yesterday,  there  was  only 
one  thing  to  do :  he  must  have  that  five 
thousand  dollars  which  was  to  be  handed 
over  by  the  Old  Seigneur.  This  time  he  did 
not  attempt  to  find  excuses,  he  called  the 
thing  by  its  proper  name. 

"Well,  it's  stealing,  or  its  highway  rob- 
bery, no  matter  how  one  looks  at  it,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with 
me !  I  must  have  got  started  wrong  some- 
how. Money  to  spend,  playing  at  soldiering> 
made  to  believe  I'd  have  a  pot  of  money  and 
an  estate,  and  then  told  one  fine  day  that  a 
son  and  heir  with  health  in  form  and  feature 
was  come,  and  Esau  must  go.  No  pro- 
fession except  soldiering,  debt  staring  me  in 
the  face,  and  a  nasty  mess  of  it  all  round.  I 
wonder  why  it  is  that  I  didn't  pull  myself 
together,  be  honest  to  a  hair,  and  fight  my 
way  through  ?  I  suppose  I  hadn't  it  in  me. 
I  wasn't  the  right  metal  at  the  start.  There's 
always  been  a  black  sheep  in  our  family,  a 
gentleman  or  a  lady,  born  without  morals, 
and  I  happen  to  be  the  gentleman  this  gener- 


i2o    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

ation.  I  always  knew  what  was  right,  and 
liked  it,  and  I  always  did  what  was  wrong, 
and  liked  it  —  nearly  always.  But  I  suppose 
I  was  fated.  I  was  bound  to  get  into  a  hole, 
and  I'm  in  it  now  with  one  lung  and  a  wife 
in  prospect  to  support.  I  suppose  if  I  were 
to  write  down  all  the  decent  things  I've 
thought  in  my  life,  and  put  them  beside  the 
indecent  things  I've  done,  nobody  would  be- 
lieve the  same  man  was  responsible  for  them. 
I'm  one  of  the  men  who  ought  to  be  put 
above  temptation ;  be  well-bridled,  well-fed, 
and  the  mere  cost  of  comfortable  living  pro- 
vided, and  then  I'd  do  big  things.  But  that 
isn't  the  way  of  the  world,  and  so  I  feel  that 
a  morning  like  this,  and  the  love  of  a  girl 
like  that  "  (he  nodded  towards  the  horizon  into 
which  Christine  had  gone)  "ought  to  make  a 
man  sing  a  Te  Deum.  And  yet  this  evening,  or 
to-morrow  evening,  or  the  next,  I'll  steal  five 
thousand  dollars,  if  it  can  be  done,  and  risk 
my  neck  in  doing  it ;  to  say  nothing  of 
family  honour,  and  what  not !  " 

He  got  up  from  the  window,  went  to  his 
trunk,  opened  it,  and,  taking  out  a  pistol, 
examined  it  carefully,  cocking  and  uncocking 
it,  and  after  loading  it,  and  again  trying  the 
trigger,  put  it  back  again.  There  came  a 
tap  at  the  door,  and  to  his  call  a  servant 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    121 

entered  with  a  glass  of  milk  and  whiskey, 
with  which  he  always  began  the  day. 

The  taste  of  the  liquid  brought  back  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  before,  and  he  suddenly 
stopped  drinking,  threw  back  his  head,  and 
laughed  softly. 

u  By  Jingo,  but  that  liqueur  was  stunning  — 
and  so  was  —  Sophie  .  .  .  Sophie !  That 
sounds  compromisingly  familiar  this  morn- 
ing, and  very  improper  also !  But  Sophie 
is  a  very  nice  person,  and  I  ought  to  be 
well  ashamed  of  myself.  I  needed  the  bit 
and  curb  both  yesterday.  It'll  never  do  at 
all.  If  I'm  going  to  marry  Christine,  we 
must  have  no  family  complications.  c  Must 
have  ? '  "  he  added,  "  what  if  Sophie  already 
—  good  Lord  !  " 

It  was  a  strange  sport  altogether,  in  which 
some  people  were  bound  to  get  a  bad  fall, 
himself  probably  among  the  rest.  He  in- 
tended to  rob  the  brother,  he  had  set  the 
government  going  against  the  brother's  revo- 
lutionary cause,  he  was  going  to  marry  one 
sister,  and  the  other  —  the  less  thought  and 
said  about  that  matter,  the  better. 

The  afternoon  brought  Nic,  who  seemed 
perplexed  and  excited,  but  was  most  friendly. 
It  seemed  to  Ferrol  as  if  Nic  wished  to  dis- 
close something,  but  he  gave  him  no  oppor- 


122    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

tuntty.  What  he  knew,  he  knew,  and  he 
could  make  use  of,  but  he  wanted  no  further 
confidences.  Ever  since  the  night  of  the 
fight  with  the  bear  there  had  been  nothing 
said  on  matters  concerning  the  Rebellion. 
If  Nicolas  disclosed  any  secret  now,  it  must 
surely  be  about  the  money,  and  that  must 
not  be  if  he  could  prevent  it.  But  he  watched 
his  friend,  nevertheless. 

Night  came,  and  Christine  did  not  return 
—  eight  o'clock,  nine  o'clock.  Lavilette  and 
his  wife  were  a  little  anxious,  but  Ferrol  and 
Nicolas  made  excuses  for  her,  and,  in  the 
wild  talk  and  gossip  about  the  Rebellion, 
attention  was  easily  shifted  from  her.  Be- 
sides, Christine  was  well  used  to  taking  care 
of  herself. 

Lavilette  flatly  refused  to  give  Nic  a  penny 
for  "the  cause,"  and  stormed  at  his  connec- 
tion with  it ;  but  at  last  became  pacified,  and 
agreed  that  it  was  best  that  Madame  Lavi- 
lette should  know  nothing  about  Nic's  com- 
plicity just  yet.  At  half-past  nine  o'clock 
Nic  left  the  house  and  took  the  road  towards 
the  Seigneury. 


Chapter  XIII 

ABOUT    half-way    between    the    Sei- 
gneury  and  the   main  street   of  the 
village  there  was  a  huge  tree  whose 
limbs  stretched  across  the  road  and 
made  a  sort  of  archway.      In  the   daytime, 
during  the  summer,  foot-travellers,  carts,  and 
carriages  with  their  drivers  loitered  in  its  shade 
as  they  passed,  grateful  for  the  rest  it  gave ; 
but  at  night,  even  when  it  was  moonlight, 
the  wide  branches  threw  a  dark  and  heavy 
shadow,  and  the  passage  beneath  them  was 
gloomy  travel.     Many  a  foot-traveller  hesi- 
tated to  pass  into  that  umbrageous  shadow, 
and    skirted   the   fence  beyond  the  branches 
on  the  further  side  of  the  road  instead. 

When  Nicolas  Lavilette,  returning  from 
the  Seigneury  with  the  precious  bag  of  gold 
for  Papineau,  came  hurriedly  along  the  road 
towards  the  village,  he  half  halted,  with 
sudden  premonition  of  danger,  a  dozen  feet 
or  so  from  the  great  tree ;  but  like  most 
young  people  who  are  inclined  to  trust  noth- 
ing but  their  own  strong  arms  and  what  their 
eyes  can  see,  he  withstood  the  temptation  to 

123 


124    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

skirt  the  fence,  and  with  a  little,  half-scornful 
laugh  at  himself,  yet  a  little  timidity  also 
(or  he  would  not  have  laughed  at  all),  he 
hurried  under  the  branches.  He  had  not 
gone  three  steps  when  the  light  of  a  dark- 
lantern  flashed  suddenly  in  his  face,  and  a 
pistol  touched  his  forehead.  All  he  could 
see  was  a  figure  entirely  clothed  in  black, 
even  to  hands  and  face,  with  only  holes  for 
eyes,  nose,  and  mouth. 

He  stood  perfectly  still ;  the  shock  was  so 
sudden.  There  was  something  determined 
and  deadly  in  the  pose  of  the  figure  before 
him,  in  the  touch  of  the  weapon,  in  the 
clearness  of  the  light.  His  eyes  dropped, 
and  fixed  involuntarily  upon  the  lantern. 

He  had  a  revolver  with  him ;  but  it  was 
useless  to  attempt  to  defend  himself  with  it. 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  Presently, 
with  the  fingers  that  held  the  lantern,  his 
assailant  made  a  motion  of  Hands  up  !  There 
was  no  reason  why  he  should  risk  his  life 
without  a  chance  of  winning,  so  he  put  up 
his  hands.  At  another  motion,  he  drew  out 
the  bag  of  gold  with  his  left  hand,  and, 
obeying  the  direction  of  another  gesture, 
dropped  it  on  the  ground.  There  was  a 
pause,  then  another  gesture,  which  he  pre- 
tended not  to  understand. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    125 

"Your  pistol !  "  said  the  voice,  in  a  whis- 
per, through  the  mask. 

He  felt  the  cold  steel  at  his  forehead  press 
a  little  closer ;  he  also  felt  how  steady  it  was. 
He  was  no  fool.  He  had  been  in  trouble 
before,  in  his  lifetime ;  he  drew  out  the 
pistol,  and  passed  it,  handle  first,  to  three 
fingers  stretched  out  from  the  dark-lantern. 

The  figure  moved  to  where  the  money  and 
the  pistol  were,  and  said,  in  a  whisper  still : 

"  Go !  " 

He  had  one  moment  of  wild  eagerness  to 
try  his  luck  in  a  sudden  assault,  but  that 
passed  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  and  with  the 
pistol  still  covering  him,  he  passed  out  into 
the  open  road,  with  a  helpless  anger  on 
him. 

A  crescent  moon  was  struggling  through 
floes  of  fleecy  clouds,  the  stars  were  shining, 
and  so  the  road  was  not  entirely  dark.  He 
went  about  thirty  steps,  then  turned  and 
looked  back.  The  figure  was  still  standing 
there,  with  the  pistol  and  the  light.  He 
walked  on  another  twenty  or  thirty  steps  and 
once  again  looked  back.  The  light  and  the 
pistol  were  still  there.  Again  he  walked  on. 
But  now  he  heard  the  rumble  of  buggy  wheels 
behind.  Once  more  he  looked  back :  the 
figure  and  the  light  had  gone !  The  buggy 


126    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

wheels  sounded  nearer.  With  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  courage,  he  turned  round  and  ran  back 
swiftly.  The  light  suddenly  flashed  again. 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  said,  and  turned  and 
walked  slowly  along  the  road. 

The  sound  of  the  buggy  wheels  came  still 
nearer.  Presently  it  was  obscured  by  passing 
under  the  huge  branches  of  the  tree.  Then 
the  horse,  buggy,  and  driver  appeared  at  the 
other  side,  and  in  a  few  moments  had  over- 
taken him.  He  looked  up  sharply,  scru- 
tinizingly.  Suddenly  he  burst  out : 

"  Holy  Mother,  Chris,  is  that  you ! 
Where' ve  you  been  ?  Are  you  all  right  ?  " 

She  had  whipped  up  her  horse  at  first 
sight  of  him,  thinking  he  might  be  some 
drunken  rough. 

"  Mais,  man  Dieu,  Nic,  is  that  you  ?  I 
thought  at  first  you  were  a  highwayman  !  " 

"  No,  you've  passed  the  highwayman ! 
Come,  let  me  get  in." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  she  knew  exactly 
what  had  happened  to  him. 

"  Who  could  it  be  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  at  first  it  was  that  beast  Vanne 
Castine  ! "  he  answered  ;  "  he's  the  only  one 
that  knew  about  the  money  besides  the  agent 
and  the  Old  Seigneur.  He  brought  word 
from  Papineau.  But  it  was  too  tall  for  him, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes     127 

and  he  wouldn't  have  been  so  quiet  about 
it.  Just  like  a  ghost!  It  makes  my  flesh 
creep  now ! " 

It  did  not  seem  such  a  terrible  thing  to 
her  at  the  moment,  for  she  had  in  her  pocket 
the  license  to  marry  the  Honourable  Tom 
Ferrol  upon  the  morrow,  and  she  thought, 
with  joy,  of  seeing  him  just  as  soon  as  she 
set  foot  in  the  doorway  of  the  Manor  Casim- 
bault. 

It  was  something  of  a  shock  to  her  that 
she  did  not  see  him  for  quite  a  half-hour 
after  she  arrived  home,  and  that  was  half- 
past  ten  o'clock.  But  women  forget  neglect 
quickly  in  the  delight  of  a  lover's  presence, 
so  her  disappointment  passed.  Yet  she  could 
not  help  but  speak  of  it. 

"Why  weren't  you  at  the  door  to  meet 
me  when  I  came  back  to-night  with  that  — 
that  in  my  pocket  ? "  she  asked  him,  his  arm 
round  her. 

"  I've  got  a  kicking  lung,  you  know,"  he 
said  with  a  half  ironical,  half  self-pitying 
smile. 

"Oh  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  my  dear, 
dear  love ! "  she  said  as  she  buried  her  face 
on  his  breast. 


Chapter  XIV 

BEFORE  he  left  for  the  front  next 
morning  to  join  his  company  and 
march  to  Papineau's  headquarters, 
Nic  came  to  Ferrol,  told  him  with 
rage  and  disappointment  the  story  of  the 
highway  robbery,  and  also  that  he  hoped 
Ferrol  would  not  worry  about  the  Rebellion, 
and  would  remain  at  the  Manor  Casimbault 
in  any  case. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  he,  "  my  mother's  half 
English ;  so  you're  not  alone.  We're  going 
to  make  a  big  fight  for  it.  We've  stood  it 
as  long  as  we  can.  But  we're  friends  in  this, 
aren't  we,  Ferrol  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  Ferrol  sipped 
his  whiskey  and  milk,  and  continued  dressing. 
He  set  the  glass  down,  and  looked  towards 
the  open  window,  through  which  came  the 
smell  of  the  ripe  orchard  and  the  fragrance 
of  the  pines.  He  turned  to  Lavilette  at  last, 
and  said,  as  he  fastened  his  collar: 

"Yes,  you  and  I  are  friends,  Nic;  but  I'm 
a  Britisher,  and  my  'people  have  been  Brit- 

128 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    129 

ishers  since  Edward  the  Third's  time;  and 
for  this  same  Quebec  two  of  my  great-grand- 
uncles  fought  and  lost  their  lives.  If  I  were 
sound  of  limb  and  mind  I'd  fight  like  them, 
to  keep  what  they  helped  to  get.  You're 
in  for  a  rare  good  beating,  and,  voyez,  my 
friend  —  while  I  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm 
personally,  I'd  crawl  on  my  knees  from  here 
to  the  Citadel  at  Quebec  to  get  a  pot-shot 
at  your  rag-tag-and-bobtail  4  patriots.'  You 
can  count  me  a  first-class  enemy  to  your 
'cause,'  though  I'm  not  a  first-class  fighting 
man.  And  now,  Nic,  give  me  a  lift  with 
my  coat.  This  shoulder  jibs  a  bit  since  the 
bear-baiting." 

Lavilette  was  naturally  prejudiced  in  Fer- 
rol's  favour,  and  this  deliberate  and  straight- 
forward patriotism  more  pleased  than  offended 
him.  His  own  patriotism  was  not  a  deep 
or  lasting  thing :  vanity  and  a  restless  spirit 
were  its  fountains  of  inspiration.  He  knew 
that  Ferrol  was  penniless  (or  he  was  so  yester- 
day), and  this  quiet  defiance  of  events  in  the 
very  camp  of  the  enemy  could  not  but  appeal 
to  his  ebullient  Gallic  chivalry.  Ferrol  did 
not  say  these  things  because  he  had  five 
thousand  dollars  behind  him,  for  he  would 
have  said  them  if  he  was  starving  and  dying 
—  perhaps  out  of  an  inherent  stubbornness, 


130    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

perhaps  because  this  hereditary  virtue  in  him 
would  have  been  as  hard  to  resist  as  his  sins. 

"  That's  all  right,  Ferrol,"  answered  Lavi- 
lette ;  "  I  hope  you'll  stay  here  at  the  Manor, 
no  matter  what  comes.  You're  welcome. 
Will  you  ? " 

"Yes,  I'll  stay,  and  glad  to.  I  can't 
very  well  do  anything  else.  I'm  bankrupt. 
Haven't  got  a  penny  —  of  my  own,"  he 
added,  with  daring  humour.  "  Besides,  it's 
comfortable  here,  and  I  feel  like  one  of  the 
family ;  and  anyhow,  4  Life  is  short  and 
Time  is  a  pacer  ! ' :  His  hacking  cough 
emphasized  the  statement. 

"  It  won't  be  easy  for  you  in  Bonavent- 
ure,"  said  Nicolas,  walking  restlessly  up  and 
down.  "They're  nearly  all  for  the  cause  — 
all  except  the  Cure.  But  he  can't  do  much 
now,  and  he'll  keep  out  of  the  mess.  By 
the  time  he  has  a  chance  to  preach  against 
it  next  Sunday,  every  man  that  wants  to  '11 
be  at  the  Front,  and  fighting.  But  you'll  be 
all  right,  I  think.  They  like  you  here." 

"  I've  a  couple  of  good  friends  to  see  me 
through,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

Ferrol  went  to  his  trunk,  took  out  a  pair 
of  pistols,  and  balanced  them  lightly  in  his 
hands.  "  Good  to  confuse  twenty  men,"  he 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    131 

said.  "  A  brace  of  'em  are  bound  to  drop, 
and  they  don't  know  which  one !  " 

He  raised  a  pistol  lazily,  and  looked  out 
along  its  barrel  through  the  open  sunshiny 
window.  Something  in  the  pose  of  the 
body,  in  the  curve  of  the  arm,  struck  Nico- 
las strangely.  He  moved  almost  in  front  of 
Ferrol.  There  came  back  to  him  mechan- 
ically the  remembrance  of  a  piece  of  silver 
on  the  butt  of  one  of  the  highwayman's 
pistols ! 

The  same  piece  of  silver  was  on  the  butt 
of  Ferrol's  pistol.  It  startled  him,  but  he 
almost  laughed  to  himself  at  the  absurdity 
of  the  suggestion.  Ferrol  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  play  a  game  like  that,  and 
with  him  ! 

Still  he  could  not  resist  a  temptation.  He 
stepped  in  front  of  the  pistol,  almost  touch- 
ing it  with  his  forehead,  looking  at  Ferrol  as 
he  had  looked  at  the  highwayman  last  night. 

"  Look  out,  it's  loaded  !  "  said  Ferrol,  low- 
ering the  weapon  coolly,  and  not  showing  by 
sign  or  muscle  that  he  understood  Lavilctte's 
meaning.  "  I  should  think  you'd  had  enough 
of  pistols  for  one  twenty-four  hours." 

"  Do  you  know,  Ferrol,  you  looked  just 
then  so  like  the  robber  last  night,  that  for 
one  moment  I  half  thought!  —  And  the  pistol, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

too,  looks  just  the  same  —  that  silver  piece 
on  the  butt !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  this  piece  for  the  name  of  the 
owner ! "  said  Ferrol,  in  a  laughing  brogue, 
and  he  coughed  a  little.  "Well,  maybe 
some  one  did  use  this  pistol  last  night.  It 
wouldn't  be  hard  to  open  my  trunk.  Let's 
see,  whom  shall  we  suspect  ?  " 

Lavilette  was  entirely  reassured,  if  indeed 
he  needed  reassurance.  Ferrol  coughed  still 
more,  and  was  obliged  to  sit  down  on  the 
side  of  the  bed  and  rest  himself  against  the 
footboard. 

u  There's  a  new  jug  of  medicine  or  cordial 
come  this  morning  from  Shangois  the  No- 
tary," said  Lavilette.  "  I  just  happened  to 
think  of  it.  What  he  does  counts.  He 
knows  a  lot." 

Ferrol's  eyes  showed  interest  at  once. 

« I'll  try  it.  I'll  try  it.  The  stuff  Gati- 
neau  the  miller  sent  doesn't  do  any  good  now." 

"Shangois  is  here  —  he's  downstairs  —  if 
you  want  to  see  him." 

Ferrol  nodded.      He  was  tired  of  talking. 

"  I'm  going,"  said  Lavilette,  holding  out 
his  hand.  "I'll  join  my  company  to-day,  and 
the  scrimmage  '11  begin  as  soon  as  we  reach 
Papineau.  We've  got  four  hundred  men." 

Ferrol  tried  to  say  something,  but  he  was 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    133 

struggling  with  the  phlegm  in  his  throat.  He 
held  out  his  hand,  and  Nicolas  took  it.  At 
last  he  was  able  to  say : 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  Nic,  and  to  the  devil 
with  the  Rebellion !  You're  in  for  a  bad 
drubbing." 

Nicolas  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  anger. 
This  superior  air  of  Ferrol's  was  assumed 
by  most  Englishmen  in  the  country,  and  it 
galled  him. 

"  We'll  not  ask  quarters  of  Englishmen ; 
no,  sacre!  "  he  said,  in  a  rage. 

"  Well,  Nic,  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that. 
Better  do  that  than  break  your  pretty  neck 
on  a  taut-rope,"  was  the  lazy  reply. 

With  an  oath  Lavilette  went  out,  banging 
the  door  after  him.  Ferrol  shrugged  his 
shoulder  with  a  stoic  ennui,  and  put  away  the 
pistols  in  the  trunk.  He  was  thinking  how 
reckless  he  had  been  to  take  them  out ;  and 
yet  he  was  amused,  too,  at  the  risk  he  had 
run.  A  strange  indifference  possessed  him 
this  morning  —  indifference  to  everything; 
he  was  suffering  reaction  from  the  previous 
day's  excitement.  He  had  got  the  five  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  now  all  interest  in  it  seemed 
to  have  departed. 

Suddenly  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  ran  a 
brush  around  his  coat-collar: 


134    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  Ton  my  soul !  I  forgot :  this  is  my 
wedding  day !  —  the  great  day  in  a  man's 
life,  the  immense  event,  after  which  comes 
steady  happiness  or  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
It  was  only  six  o'clock  as  yet.  He  could 
see  the  harvesters  going  to  their  labours  in 
the  fields  of  wheat  and  oats,  the  carters  already 
bringing  in  little  loads  of  hay.  He  could  hear 
their  marche  't'en  !  to  the  horses.  Over  by 
a  little  house  on  the  river  bank  stood  an 
old  woman  sharpening  a  sickle.  He  could 
see  the  flash  of  the  steel  as  the  stone  and 
metal  gently  clashed. 

Presently  a  song  came  up  to  him  through 
the  garden  below,  from  the  house.  The  notes 
seemed  to  keep  time  to  the  hand  of  the  sickle- 
sharpener.  He  had  heard  it  before,  but  only 
in  snatches.  Now  it  seemed  to  pierce  his 
senses  and  to  flood  his  nerves  with  feeling. 
The  air  was  sensuous,  insinuating,  ardent,  the 
words  were  full  of  summer  and  that  dramatic 
indolence  of  passion,  which  saved  the  incident 
at  Magon  Farcinelle's  from  being  as  vulgar  as 
it  was  treacherous.  The  voice  was  Christine's, 
on  her  wedding  day  ! 

"  Oh,  hark  how  the  wind  goes,  the  wind  goes  — 

(  And  dark  goes  the  stream  by  the  mill  ! ) 
Oh,  see  where  the  storm  blows,  the  storm  blows  — 
(There's  a  rider  comes  over  the  hill !) 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    135 

"He  went  with  the  sunshine  one  morning  — 

(Oh,  loud  was  the  bugle  and  drum  !) 
My  soldier,  he  gave  me  no  warning  — 
(Oh,  would  that  my  lover  might  come  !) 

"My  kisses,  my  kisses  are  waiting  — 

(  Oh,  the  rider  comes  over  the  hill  ! ) 
In  Summer  the  birds  should  be  mating  — 
(Oh,  the  harvest  goes  down  to  the  mill !) 

"  Oh,  the  rider,  the  rider  he  stayeth  — 

( Oh,  joy  that  my  lover  hath  come  ! ) 
We  will  journey  together  he  sayeth  — 
(No  more  with  the  bugle  and  drum  !)  " 

He  caught  sight  of  Christine  for  a  moment, 
as  she  passed  through  the  garden  towards  the 
stable.  Her  gown  was  of  white  stuff  with 
little  spots  of  red  in  it,  and  a  narrow  red  rib- 
bon was  shot  through  the  collar.  Her  hat 
was  a  pretty  white  straw,  with  red  artificial 
flowers  upon  it.  She  wore  at  her  throat  a 
medallion  brooch ;  one  of  the  two  heirlooms 
of  the  Lavilette  family.  It  had  belonged  to  the 
great-grandmother  of  Monsieur  Louis  Lavi- 
lette, and  was  the  one  security  that  this  ambi- 
tious family  did  not  spring  up  like  a  mushroom, 
in  one  night.  It  had  always  touched  Chris- 
tine's imagination  as  a  child.  Some  native 
instinct  in  her  made  her  prize  it  beyond  every- 
thing else.  She  used  to  make  up  wonderful 
stories  about  it,  and  tell  them  to  Sophie,  who 
merely  wondered,  and  was  not  sure  but  that 
Christine  was  wicked  j  for  were  not  these 


136    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

little  romances  little  lies  ?  Sophie's  imagina- 
tion was  limited.  As  the  years  went  on, 
Christine  finally  got  possession  of  the  medal- 
lion, and  held  it  against  all  opposition.  Some- 
how, with  it  on  this  morning,  she  felt  diminish 
the  social  distance  between  herself  and  Ferrol. 

Ferrol  himself  thought  nothing  of  social 
distance.  Men  as  a  rule  get  rather  above 
that  sort  of  thing.  The  woman,  that  was  all 
that  was  in  his  mind !  She  was  good  to  look 
at :  warm,  lovable,  fascinating  in  her  little  dar- 
ing wickednesses ;  a  fiery  little  animal,  full  of 
splendid  impulses,  gifted  with  a  perilous  tem- 
perament;  and  she  loved  him!  He  had  a 
kind  of  exultation  at  the  very  fierceness  of 
her  love  for  him,  of  what  she  had  done  to 
prove  her  love :  her  fury  at  Vanne  Castine, 
the  slaughter  of  the  bear,  and  the  intention  to 
kill  Vanne  himself;  and  he  knew  that  she 
would  do  more  than  that,  if  a  great  test  came. 
Men  feel  surer  of  women  than  women  feel  of 
men. 

He  sat  down  on  the  broad  window-ledge, 
still  sipping  his  whiskey  and  milk,  as  he  looked 
at  her.  She  was  very  good  to  see.  Presently 
she  had  to  cross  a  little  plot  of  grass.  The 
dew  was  still  on  it.  She  gathered  up  her 
skirts,  and  tip-toed  quickly  across  it.  The 
action  was  attractive  enough,  for  she  had  a 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    137 

lithe  smoothness  of  motion.  Suddenly  he 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise : 

"  White  stockings —  humph  !  "  he  said. 

Somehow  those  white  stockings  suggested 
the  ironical  comment  of  the  world  upon  his 
proposed  mesalliance ;  then  he  laughed  good- 
humouredly. 

"Taste  is  all  a  matter  of  habit,  anyhow," 
said  he  to  himself.  "  My  grandmother 
wouldn't  have  had  any  better  taste,  if  she 
hadn't  been  taught.  And  what  am  I  ?  What 
am  I  ?  I  drink  more  whiskey  in  a  day  than 
any  three  men  in  the  country  !  I  don't  do  a 
stroke  of  work ;  I've  got  debts  all  over  the 
world ;  I've  mulcted  all  my  friends ;  I've  made 
fools  of  two  or  three  women  in  my  time; 
I've  broken  every  commandment  except, — 
well,  I  guess  I've  broken  every  one,  if  it 
comes  to  that ;  in  spirit,  anyhow.  I'm  a 
thief,  a  fire-eating  highwayman,  begad  !  And 
here  I  am,  with  a  perforated  lung,  going  to 
marry  a  young  girl  like  that,  without  one 
penny  in  the  world  except  what  I  stole ! 
What  beasts  men  are  !  The  worst  woman 
may  be  worse  than  the  worst  man,  but  all 
men  are  worse  than  most  women.  But  she 
wants  to  marry  me.  She  knows  exactly 
what  I  am  in  health  and  prospects,  so  why 
shouldn't  I  ? " 


138    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

He  drew  himself  up,  thinking  honestly. 
He  believed  that  he  would  live  if  he  married 
Christine;  that  his  "cold"  would  get  better; 
that  the  hole  in  his  lung  would  heal.  It 
was  only  a  matter  of  climate;  he  was  sure 
of  it.  Christine  had  a  few  hundred  dollars 
—  she  had  told  him  so.  Suppose  he  took 
three  hundred  dollars  of  the  five  thousand 
dollars :  that  would  leave  four  thousand 
seven  hundred  dollars  for  his  sister.  He 
could  go  away  South  with  Christine,  and 
could  live  on  five  or  six  hundred  dollars  a 
year ;  then  he'd  be  fit  for  something ;  he 
could  go  to  work.  He  could  join  the  Militia, 
if  necessary.  Anyhow,  he  could  get  some- 
thing to  do  when  he  got  well. 

He  drank  some  more  whiskey  and  milk. 
"  Self-preservation,  that's  the  thing ;  that's 
the  first  law,"  he  said.  "  And  more  :  if  the 
only  girl  I  ever  loved,  ever  really  loved,  loved 
from  the  crown  of  her  head  to  the  sole  of 
her  feet,  were  here,  to-day,  and  Christine 
stood  beside  her,  little  plebeian  with  a  big 
heart,  by  Heaven,  I'd  choose  Christine !  I 
can  trust  her,  though  she  is  a  little  liar.  She 
loves,  and  she'll  stick,  and  she's  true  —  where 
she  loves.  Yes ;  if  all  the  women  in  the  world 
stood  beside  Christine  this  morning,  I'd  look 
them  all  over,  from  Duchess  to  danseuse, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    139 

and  I'd  say,  'Christine  Lavilette,  I'm  a  scoun- 
drel, I  haven't  a  penny  in  the  world,  I'm  a 
thief;  but  yet  I  believe  in  you.  You  know 
what  love  is,  you  know  what  fidelity  is ;  no 
matter  what  I  did,  you  would  stand  by  me 
to  the  end.  To  the  last  day  of  my  life,  I'll 
give  you  my  heart  and  my  hand ;  and  as  you 
are  faithful  to  me,  so  I  will  be  faithful  to 
you,  so  help  me  God  ! ' 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  could  have  run 
straight  in  life.  I  couldn't  have  been  more 
than  four  years  old,  when  I  stole  the  peaches 
from  my  mother's  dressing-table;  and  I  lied 

i'ust  as  coolly  then  as  I  could  now !  I  made 
ove  to  a  girl  when  I  was  ten  years  old." 
He  laughed  to  himself  at  the  remembrance. 
"  Her  father  had  a  foundry.  She  used  to 
wear  a  red  dress,  I  remember,  and  her  hair 
was  brown.  She  sang  like  a  little  lark. 
I  was  half  mad  about  her;  and  yet  I  knew 
that  I  didn't  really  love  her.  Still,  I  told 
her  that  I  did.  I  suppose  it  was  the  cursed 
falseness  of  my  whole  nature.  I  know  that 
whenever  I  have  said  most,  and  felt  most, 
something  in  me  kept  saying  all  the  time, 
4  You're  lying,  you're  lying,  you're  lying ! ' 
Was  I  born  a  liar  ?  I  wonder  if  the  first 
words  I  ever  spoke  were  a  lie  ?  I  wonder, 
when  I  kissed  my  mother  first,  and  knew 


140    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

that  I  was  kissing  her,  if  the  same  little  devil 
that  sits  up  in  my  head  now,  said  then, 
1  You're  lying,  you're  lying,  you're  lying ! ' 
It  has  said  so  enough  times  since.  I  loved 
to  be  with  my  mother,  yet  I  never  felt,  even 
when  she  died  —  and  God  knows  I  felt  bad 
enough  then  —  I  never  felt  that  my  love  was 
all  real.  It  had  some  infernal  note  of  false- 
ness somewhere,  some  miserable  hollow  place 
where  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  when  I 
tried  to  speak  the  truth,  mocked  me !  I 
wonder  if  the  smiles  I  gave,  before  I  was 
able  to  speak  at  all,  were  only  'blarney'? 
I  wonder,  were  they  only  from  the  wish  to 
stand  well  with  everybody,  if  I  could  ?  It 
must  have  been  that ;  and  how  much  I 
meant,  and  how  much  I  did  not  mean,  God 
alone  knows! 

"What  a  sympathy  I  have  always  had  for 
criminals  !  I  have  always  wanted,  or  any- 
how, one  side  of  me  has  always  wanted,  to 
do  right,  and  the  other  side  has  always  done 
wrong !  I  have  sympathized  with  the  just, 
but  I  have  always  felt  that  I'd  like  to  help 
the  criminal  to  escape  his  punishment.  If  I 
had  been  more  real  with  that  girl  in  New 
York,  I  wonder  whether  she  wouldn't  have 
stuck  to  me  ?  When  I  was  with  her  I 
could  always  convince  her;  but  I  remember 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    141 

she  told  me  once,  that  when  I  was  away 
from  her,  she  somehow  felt  that  I  didn't 
really  love  her !  That's  always  been  the 
way.  When  I  was  with  people,  they  liked 
me ;  when  I  was  away  from  them,  I  couldn't 
depend  upon  them.  No ;  upon  my  soul,  of 
all  the  friends  I've  ever  had,  there's  not  one 
that  I  know  of,  that  I  could  go  to  now, — 
except  my  sister,  poor  girl !  —  and  feel  sure 
that,  no  matter  what  I  did,  they'd  stick  to 
me  to  the  end  !  I  suppose  the  fault  is  mine. 
If  I'd  been  worth  the  standing  by,  I'd  have 
been  the  better  stood  by.  But  this  girl,  this 
little  French  provincial,  with  a  heart  of  fire 
and  gold,  with  a  touch  of  sin  in  her,  and  a 
thumping  artery  of  truth,  she  would  walk  with 
me  to  the  gallows,  and  give  her  life  to  save  my 
life  —  yes,  a  hundred  times  !  Well,  then,  I'll 
start  over  again  ;  for  I've  found  the  real  thing. 
I'll  be  true  to  her  just  as  long  as  she's  true  to 
me.  I'll  never  lie  to  her.  And  I'll  do  some- 
thing else,  something  else.  I'll  tell  her  —  " 

He  reached  out,  picked  a  wild  rose  from 
the  vine  upon  the  wall,  and  fastened  it  in 
his  button-hole  with  a  defiant  sort  of  smile 
as  there  came  a  tap  to  his  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  said. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  stepped  Shangois 
the  Notary.  He  carried  a  jug  under  his  arm, 


142    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

which,  with  a  nod,  he  set  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

"M'sieu',"  said  he,  "it  is  a  thing  that 
cured  the  Bishop,  and  once  when  a  Prince 
of  France  was  at  Quebec  and  had  a  bad  cold, 
it  cured  him.  The  whiskey  in  it  I  made 
myself — very  good  white  wine." 

Ferrol  looked  at  the  little  man  curiously. 
He  had  only  spoken  with  him  once  or  twice, 
but  he  had  heard  the  numberless  legends 
about  him,  and  the  Cure  had  told  him  many 
of  his  sayings,  a  little  weird  and  sometimes 
maliciously  true  to  the  facts  of  life. 

Ferrol  thanked  the  little  man,  and  motioned 
to  a  chair.  There  was,  however,  a  huge 
chest  against  the  wall  near  the  window,  and 
Shangois  sat  down  on  this,  with  his  legs 
hunched  up  to  his  chin,  looking  at  Ferrol 
with  steady,  inquisitive  eyes.  Ferrol  laughed 
outright.  A  grotesque  thought  occurred  to 
him.  This  little  black  notary  was  exactly 
like  the  weird  imp  which,  he  had  always 
imagined,  sat  high  up  in  his  brain,  dropping 
down  little  ironies,  and  devilries  —  his  per- 
sonified conscience ;  or  perhaps  the  truth  left 
out  of  him  at  birth  and  given  this  form,  to 
be  with  him  yet  not  of  him. 

Shangois  did  not  stir,  nor  show  by  even 
the  wink  of  an  eyelid  that  he  recognized  the 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    143 

laughter,  or  thought  that  he  was  being  laughed 
at. 

Presently  Ferrol  sat  down  and  looked  at 
Shangois  without  speaking,  as  Shangois  looked 
at  him.  He  smiled  more  than  once,  however, 
as  the  thought  recurred  to  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"What  if  she  finds  out  about  the  five 
thousand  dollars  —  eh,  m'sieu' !  " 

Ferrol  was  completely  dumfounded.  The 
brief  question  covered  so  much  ground, 
showed  a  knowledge  of  his  whole  case.  Like 
Conscience  itself,  the  little  black  notary  had 
gone  straight  to  the  point  —  struck  home. 
He  was  keen  enough,  however,  had  sufficient 
self-command,  not  to  betray  himself,  but 
remained  unmoved  outwardly,  and  spoke 
calmly. 

"Is  that  your  business  —  to  go  round  the 
Parish  asking  conundrums  ?  "  he  said  coolly. 
"I  can't  guess  the  answer  to  that  one,  can 
you  ? " 

Shangois  hated  cowards,  and  liked  clever 
people ;  people  who  could  answer  him  after 
his  own  fashion.  Nearly  everybody  was 
afraid  of  his  tongue  and  of  him :  he  knew 
too  much ;  which  was  a  crime. 

"  I  can  find  out !  "  he  replied,  showing  his 
teeth  a  little. 


144    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"Then  you're  not  quite  sure  yourself, 
little  devilkin  ?  " 

"The  girl  is  a  riddle  —  I  am  not  the 
great  reader  of  riddles." 

"  I  didn't  call  you  that.  You're  only  a 
common  little  imp  !  " 

Shangois  showed  his  teeth  in  a  malicious 
smile. 

"  Why  did  you  set  me  the  riddle,  then  ?  " 
Ferrol  continued,  his  eyes  fixed  with  apparent 
carelessness  on  the  other's  face. 

"I  thought  she  might  have  told  you  the 
answer." 

"I  never  asked  her  the  puzzle.  Have 
you  ? " 

By  instinct,  and  from  the  notary's  repu- 
tation, Ferrol  knew  that  he  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  an  honest  man  at  least,  and  he  waited 
most  anxiously  for  an  answer,  for  his  fate 
might  hang  on  it. 

"  M'sieu',  I  have  not  seen  her  since  yes- 
terday morning." 

"Well,  what  would  you  do  if  you  found 
out  about  the  five  thousand  dollars  ?  " 

"  I  would  see  what  happened  to  it,  and 
afterwards  I  would  see  that  a  girl  of  Bon- 
aventure  did  not  marry  a  Protestant,  and  a 
thief!" 

Ferrol    rose    from    his    chair,  coughing  a 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    145 

little.  Walking  over  to  Shangois,  he  caught 
him  by  both  ears  and  shook  the  shaggy  head 
back  and  forth. 

"  You  little  scrap  of  hell ! "  he  said,  in  a 
rage,  "  if  you  ever  come  within  fifty  feet  of 
me  again,  I'll  send  you  where  you  came 
from  ! " 

Though  Shangois'  eyes  bulged  from  his 
head,  he  answered  : 

"I  was  only  ten  feet  away  from  you  last 
night  under  the  elm  !  " 

Suddenly  Ferrol's  hand  slipped  down  to 
Shangois'  throat.  Ferrol's  fingers  tightened 
—  pressed  inwards. 

"  Now  see,  I  know  what  you  mean. 
Some  one  has  robbed  Nicolas  Lavilette  of 
five  thousand  dollars.  You  dare  to  charge 
me  with  it,  curse  you  !  Let  me  see  if  there's 
any  more  lies  on  your  tongue  !  " 

With  the  violence  of  the  pressure,  Shan- 
gois' tongue  was  forced  out  of  his  mouth. 

Suddenly  a  paroxysm  of  coughing  seized 
Ferrol,  and  he  let  go  and  staggered  back 
against  the  window-ledge.  Shangois  was 
transformed  —  an  animal.  No  human  being 
had  ever  seen  him  as  he  was  at  this  moment. 
The  fingers  of  his  one  hand  opened  and  shut 
convulsively,  his  arms  worked  up  and  down, 
his  face  twitched,  his  teeth  showed  like  a 


146    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

beast's  as  he  glared  at  Ferrol.  He  looked  as 
though  he  were  about  to  spring  upon  the 
now  helpless  man.  But  up  from  the  garden 
below  there  came  the  sound  of  a  voice  — 
Christine's  —  singing. 

His  face  quieted,  and  his  body  came  to  its 
natural  pose  again,  though  his  eyes  retained 
an  active  malice.  He  turned  to  go. 

"  Remember  what  I  tell  you,"  said  Ferrol, 
"  if  you  publish  that  lie,  you'll  not  live  to 
hear  it  go  about.  I  mean  what  I  say." 
Blood  showed  upon  his  lips,  and  a  tiny  little 
stream  flowed  down  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
Whenever  he  felt  that  warm  fluid  on  his 
tongue  he  was  certain  of  his  doom,  and  the 
horror  of  slowly  dying  oppressed  him,  angered 
him.  It  begot  in  him  a  desire  to  end  it  all. 
He  had  a  hatred  of  suicide,  but  there  were 
other  ways.  "  I'll  have  your  life,  or  you  have 
mine.  I'm  not  to  be  played  with,"  he  added. 

The  sentences  were  broken  by  coughing, 
and  his  handkerchief  was  red  with  blood. 

"  It  is  no  concern  of  the  world,"  answered 
Shangois,  stretching  up  his  throat,  for  he 
still  felt  the  pressure  of  Ferrol's  ringers  — 
"  only  of  the  girl,  and  her  brother.  The 
girl  —  I  saved  her  once  before  from  your 
friend  Vanne  Castine,  and  I  will  save  her 
from  you  —  but  yes  !  It  is  nothing  to  the 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    147 

world,  to  Bonaventure,  that  you  are  a  robber ; 
it  is  everything  to  her.  You  are  all  robbers 
—  you  English  —  cochons  !  " 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  Ferrol 
was  about  to  follow  him,  but  he  had  a  sudden 
fit  of  weakness,  and  he  caught  up  a  pillow, 
and,  throwing  it  on  the  chest  where  Shangois 
had  sat,  stretched  himself  upon  it.  He  lay 
still  for  quite  a  long  time,  and  presently  fell 
into  a  doze.  In  those  days  no  event  made  a 
lasting  impression  on  him.  When  it  was 
over  it  ended,  so  far  as  concerned  any  dis- 
turbing remembrances  of  it.  He  was  awak- 
ened (he  could  not  have  slept  for  more  than 
fifteen  minutes)  by  a  tapping  at  his  door,  and 
his  name  spoken  softly.  He  went  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  It  was  Christine.  He 
thought  she  seemed  pale,  also  that  she  seemed 
nervous,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  light  and 
fire,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  look  in 
her  face :  it  was  all  for  him.  He  set  down 
her  agitation  to  the  adventure  they  were 
about  to  make  together.  He  stepped  back 
as  if  inviting  her  to  enter,  but  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  No,  not  this  morning.  I  will  meet  you 
at  the  old  mill  in  half  an  hour.  The  Parish 
is  all  mad  about  the  Rebellion,  and  no  one 
will  notice  or  talk  of  anything  else.  I  have 


148    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

the  best  pair  of  horses  in  the  stable,  and  we 
can  drive  it  in  two  hours  —  easy." 

She  took  a  paper  from  her  pocket. 

"  This  is  —  the  —  license,"  she  added,  and 
she  blushed. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  she  stepped  in- 
side the  room,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him,  and  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

"  My  dear,  my  love,  my  own  !  "  she  said, 
and  then  hastened  away  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

He  saw  the  tears.  "  I  wonder  what  they 
were  for  ? "  he  said  musingly,  as  he  opened 
up  the  official  blue  paper.  "  For  joy  ? " 
He  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

His  eyes  ran  through  the  document. 

"  The  Honourable  Tom  Ferrol,  of  Stavely 
Castle,  County  Galway,  Ireland,  bachelor,  and 
Christine  Marie  Lavilette,  of  the  Township  of 
Bonaventure,  in  the  Province  of  Quebec,  Are 
hereby  granted"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  "according  to  the 
laws  of  the  Province  of  Ontario"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

He  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  For  better  or  for  worse,  then,"  said  he, 
and  descended  the  stairs. 

Presently,  as  he  went  through  the  village, 
he  noticed  signs  of  hostility  to  himself. 
Cries  of  Vive  la  Canada !  Vive  la  France ! 
a  has  F  Anglais  !  came  to  him  out  of  the  mur- 
muring and  excitement.  But  the  Regimental 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    149 

Surgeon  took  off  his  cap  to  him,  very  con- 
spicuously advancing  to  meet  him,  and  they 
exchanged  a  few  w"ords. 

"  By  the  way,  monsieur,"  the  Regimental 
Surgeon  added  as  he  took  his  leave,  "  I  knew 
of  this  some  days  ago,  and  being  a  justice  of 
the  peace  it  was  my  duty  to  inform  the 
authorities  —  ah  yes  !  One  must  do  one's 
duty  in  any  case,"  he  said,  in  imitation  of 
English  bluffhess,  and  took  his  leave. 

Ten  minutes  later  Christine  and  Ferrol 
were  on  their  way  to  the  English  Province 
to  be  married. 

That  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  as  they 
left  the  little  English-speaking  village  man 
and  wife,  they  heard  something  which  startled 
them  both.  It  was  a  bear-trainer  singing  to 
his  bear,  the  same  weird  song  without  words 
which  Vanne  Castine  sang  to  Michael.  Over 
in  another  street  they  could  see  the  bear  on 
his  hind  feet  dancing,  but  they  could  not  see 
the  man. 

Christine  glanced  at  Ferrol  anxiously,  for 
she  was  nervous  and  excited,  though  her  face 
had  also  a  look  of  exultant  happiness. 

"  Oh  no,  it's  not  Castine !  "  he  said,  as  if 
in  reply  to  her  look. 

In  a  vague  way,  however,  she  felt  it  to  be 
ominous. 


Chapter  XV 

THE  village  had  no  thought  or  care  for 
anything  except  the  Rebellion  and 
news  of  it,  and  for  several  days  Ferrol 
and  Christine  lived  their  new  life  un- 
observed by  the  people  of  the  village,  even 
by  the  household  of  Manor  Casimbault. 

It  almost  seemed  that  Ferrol's  prophecy 
regarding  himself  was  coming  true,  for  his 
cheek  took  on  a  heightened  colour,  his  step 
a  greater  elasticity,  and  he  flung  his  shoulders 
out  with  a  little  of  the  old  military  swagger; 
cheerful,  forgetful  of  all  the  world,  and  buoy- 
ant in  what  he  thought  to  be  his  new-found 
health  and  permanent  happiness. 

Vague  reports  came  to  the  village  con- 
cerning the  Rebellion.  There  were  not  a 
dozen  people  in  the  village  who  espoused  the 
British  cause,  but  these  few  were  silent.  For 
the  moment  the  Lavilettes  were  popular. 
Nicolas  had  made  for  them  a  sort  of  grand 
coup.  He  had  for  the  moment  redeemed  the 
snobbishness  of  two  generations. 

After  his  secret  marriage  Ferrol  was  not 

150 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    151 

seen  in  the  village  for  some  days,  and  his 
presence  and  nationality  were  almost  forgot- 
ten by  the  people ;  they  only  thought  of  what 
was  actively  before  their  eyes.  On  the  fifth 
day  after  his  marriage,  which  was  Saturday, 
he  walked  down  to  the  village,  attracted  by 
shouting  and  unusual  excitement.  When 
he  saw  the  cause  of  the  demonstration  he  had 
a  sudden  flush  of  anger.  A  flag-staff  had 
been  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  and 
upon  it  had  been  run  up  the  French  tricolour. 
He  stood  and  looked  at  the  shouting  crowd  a 
moment,  then  swung  round  and  went  to  the 
office  of  the  Regimental  Surgeon,  who  met 
him  at  the  door.  When  he  came  out  again 
he  carried  a  little  bundle  under  his  left  arm. 
He  made  straight  for  the  crowd  which  was 
scattered  in  groups,  and  pushed  or  threaded 
his  way  to  the  flag-staff.  He  was  at  least  a 
head  taller  than  any  man  there,  and  though 
he  was  not  so  upright  as  he  had  been,  the 
lines  of  his  figure  were  still  those  of  a  com- 
manding personality. 

A  sort  of  platform  had  been  erected  upon 
the  flag-staff,  and  on  it  a  drunken  little  habi- 
tant was  talking  treason.  Without  a  word, 
Ferrol  stepped  upon  the  platform,  and,  loos- 
ening the  rope,  dropped  the  tricolour  half- 
way down  the  staff  before  his  actioa  was 


152    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

» 
quite  comprehended  by  the  crowd.     Presently 

a  hoarse  shout  proclaimed  the  anger  and  con- 
sternation of  the  habitants. 

"  Leave  that  flag  alone,"  shouted  a  dozen 
voices.  "Leave  it  where  it  was,"  others 
repeated  with  oaths. 

He  dropped  it  the  full  length  of  the  staff, 
whipped  it  off  the  string,  and  put  his  foot 
upon  it.  Then  he  unrolled  the  bundle  which 
he  had  carried  under  his  arm.  It  was  the 
British  flag.  He  slipped  it  upon  the  string, 
and  was  about  to  haul  it  up,  when  the  drunken 
orator  on  the  platform  caught  him  by  the  arm 
with  fiery  courage. 

"  Here,  you  leave  that  alone ;  that's  not 
our  flag,  and  if  you  string  it  up,  we'll  string 
you  up,  bagosh  !  "  he  roared. 

Ferrol's  heavy  walking-stick  was  in  his 
right  hand. 

"  Let  go  my  arm  —  quick  !  "  he  said 
quietly. 

He  was  no  coward,  and  these  people  were, 
and  he  knew  it.  The  habitant  drew  back. 

"  Get  off  the  platform,"  he  said  with  quiet 
menace. 

He  turned  quickly  to  the  crowd,  for  some 
had  sprung  towards  the  platform  to  pull  him 
off.  Raising  his  voice,  he  said : 

"Stand  back,  and  hear  what  I've  got  to 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    153 

say.  You're  fifty  to  one,  you  can  probably 
kill  me;  but  before  you  do  that  I  shall  kill 
three  or  four  of  you  —  I've  had  to  do  with 
rioters  before.  You  little  handful  of  people 
here  —  little  more  than  half  a  million  — 
imagine  that  you  can  defeat  thirty-five  mil- 
lions, with  an  army  of  half  a  million,  a  hun- 
dred battle  ships,  a  thousand  cannon,  and  a 
million  rifles.  Come  now,  don't  be  fools. 
The  Governor  alone  up  there  in  Montreal 
has  enough  men  to  drive  you  all  into  the 
hills  of  Maine  in  a  week.  You  think  you've 
got  the  start  of  Colborne  ?  Why,  he  has 
known  every  movement  of  Papineau  and 
your  rebels  for  the  last  two  months.  You 
can  bluster  and  riot  to-day,  but  look  out  for 
to-morrow.  I  am  the  only  Englishman  here 
among  you.  Kill  me,  but  watch  what  your 
end  will  be !  For  every  hair  of  my  head 
there  will  be  one  less  habitant  in  this  Prov- 
ince. You  haul  down  the  British  flag,  and 
string  up  your  tricolour  in  this  British  village 
while  there  is  one  Britisher  to  say,  l  Put  up 
that  flag  again  ! '  You  fools  !  " 

He  suddenly  gave  the  rope  a  pull,  and  the 
flag  ran  up  half-way  ;  but  as  he  did  so,  a  stone 
was  thrown.  It  flew  past  his  head,  grazing 
his  temple.  A  sharp  point  lacerated  the 
flesh,  and  the  blood  flowed  down  his  cheek. 


154    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

He  ran  the  flag  up  to  its  full  height,  swiftly 
knotted  the  cord,  and  put  his  back  against 
the  pole.  Grasping  his  stick,  he  prepared 
himself  for  an  attack. 

"  Mind  what  I  say,"  he  cried.  "  The  first 
man  that  comes  will  get  what  for !  " 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  crowd ; 
consternation  and  dismay  behind  Ferrol,  and 
excitement  and  anger  in  front  of  him.  Three 
men  were  pushing  their  way  through  to  him. 
Two  of  them  were  armed.  They  reached 
the  platform  and  mounted  it.  It  was  the 
Regimental  Surgeon  and  two  British  soldiers. 
The  Regimental  Surgeon  held  a  paper  in  his 
hand. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said  to  the  crowd,  "a 
proclamation  by  Sir  John  Colborne.  The 
rebels  have  been  defeated  at  three  points, 
and  half  of  the  men  from  Bonaventure  who 
joined  Papineau  have  been  killed.  The  ring- 
leader, Nicolas  Lavilette,  when  found  will  be 
put  on  trial  for  his  life.  Now  disperse  to 
your  homes,  or  every  man  of  you  will  be 
arrested  and  tried  by  court-martial." 

The  crowd  melted  away  like  snow,  and 
they  hurried  not  the  less  because  the  stone 
which  some  one  had  thrown  at  Ferrol  had 
struck  a  lad  in  the  head,  and  brought  him 
senseless  and  bleeding  to  the  ground. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    155 

Ferrol  picked  up  the  tricolour  and  handed 
it  to  the  Regimental  Surgeon. 

u  I  could  have  done  it  alone,  I  believe,"  he 
said;  "and  upon  my  soul  I'm  sorry  for  the 
poor  devils.  Suppose  we  were  Englishmen 
in  France,  eh  !  " 


Chapter  XVI 

THE  fight  was  over.  The  childish 
struggle  for  patriotism  had  come  to  a 
childish  end.  The  little  toy  loyalists 
had  been  broken  all  to  pieces.  A 
few  thousand  Frenchmen  with  a  vague  pa- 
triotism had  shied  some  harmless  stones  at 
the  British  flagstaff  on  the  Citadel :  that 
was  all.  Obeying  the  instincts  of  blood, 
religion,  race,  and  language,  they  had  made  a 
haphazard,  sidelong  charge  upon  their  ancient 
conquerors,  had  spluttered  and  kicked  a  little, 
and  had  then  turned  tail  upon  disaster  and 
defeat.  An  incoherent  little  army  had  been 
shattered  into  fugitive  factors,  and  every  one 
of  these  hurried  and  scurried  for  a  hole  of 
safety  into  which  he  could  hide.  Some  were 
mounted,  but  most  were  on  foot. 

Officers  fared  little  better  than  men.  It 
was  "  Save  who  can  " ;  they  were  all  on  a 
dead  level  of  misfortune.  Hundreds  reached 
no  cover,  but  were  overtaken  and  driven 
back  to  British  headquarters.  In  their  terror, 
twenty  brave  rebels  of  two  hours  ago  were 

156 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    157 

to  be  captured  by  a  single  British  officer  of 
Infantry  speaking  bad  French. 

Two  of  these  hopeless  fugitives  were  still 
fortunate  enough  to  get  a  start  of  the  hounds 
of  retaliation  and  revenge.  They  were  both 
mounted,  and  had  far  to  go  to  reach  their 
destination.  Home  was  the  one  word  in  the 
mind  of  each ;  and  they  both  came  from 
Bonaventure. 

The  one  was  a  tall,  athletic  young  man, 
who  had  borne  a  Captain's  commission  in 
Papineau's  patriot  army.  He  rode  a  sorrel 
horse,  a  great,  wiry  rawbone,  with  a  lunge 
like  a  moose,  and  legs  that  struck  the  ground 
with  the  precision  of  a  piston-rod.  As  soon 
as  his  nose  was  turned  towards  Bonaventure, 
he  smelt  the  wind  of  home  in  his  nostrils, 
his  hatchet-head  jerked  till  he  got  the  bit 
straight  between  his  teeth ;  then,  gripping  it 
as  a  fretful  dog  clamps  the  bone  which  his 
master  pretends  to  wrest  from  him,  he  leaned 
down  to  his  work,  and  the  mud,  the  new- 
fallen  snow,  and  the  slush  flew  like  dirty 
sparks,  and  covered  man  and  horse. 

Above,  an  uncertain,  watery  moon  flew  in 
and  out  in  the  shifting  clouds,  and  now  and 
then  a  shot  came  through  the  mist  and  the 
half-dusk,  telling  of  some  poor  fugitive,  fight- 
ing, overtaken,  or  killed. 


158    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

The  horse  neither  turned  head  nor 
slackened  gait.  He  was  like  a  living  ma- 
chine, obeying  neither  call  nor  spur,  but 
travelling  with  an  unchanging  speed  along 
the  level  road,  and  up  and  down  hill,  mile 
after  mile. 

In  the  rider's  heart  were  a  hundred  things ; 
among  them  fear,  that  miserable  depression 
which  comes  with  the  first  defeats  of  life  — 
the  falling  of  the  mercury  from  passionate 
activity  to  that  frozen  numbness  which  be- 
trays the  exhausted  nerve  and  despairing 
mind.  The  horse  could  not  go  fast  enough, 
the  panic  of  flight  was  on  him.  He  was 
conscious  of  it,  despised  himself  for  it,  but 
he  could  not  help  it.  Yet,  if  he  were  over- 
taken, he  would  fight ;  yes,  fight  to  the  end, 
whatever  it  might  be. 

Nicolas  Lavilette  had  begun  to  unwind 
the  coil  of  fortune  and  ambition  which  his 
mother  had  long  been  engaged  in  winding. 

A  mile  or  two  behind  was  another  horse 
and  another  rider.  The  horse  was  clean  of 
limb,  straight  and  shapely  of  body,  with  a 
leg  like  a  lady's,  and  heart  and  wind  to  travel 
till  she  dropped  ;  for  this  mare  the  little  black 
notary,  Shangois,  had  cheerfully  stolen  from 
beside  the  tent  of  the  English  general.  The 
bridle-rein  hung  upon  the  wrist  of  the 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    159 

notary's  palsied  left  hand,  and  in  his  right 
hand  he  carried  the  long  sabre  of  an  artillery 
officer,  which  he  had  picked  up  on  the  battle- 
field. He  rode  like  a  monkey  clinging  to  the 
back  of  a  hound,  his  shoulders  hunched,  his 
body  bent  forward  even  with  the  mare's 
neck,  his  knees  gripping  the  saddle  with  a 
frightened  tenacity,  his  small,  black  eyes 
peering  into  the  darkness  before  him,  and 
his  ears  alert  to  the  sound  of  pursuers. 

Twenty  men  of  the  British  Artillery  were 
off  on  a  chase  that  pleased  them  well.  The 
hunt  was  up.  It  was  not  only  the  joy  of 
killing,  but  the  joy  of  gain,  that  spurred  them 
on ;  for  they  would  have  that  little  black 
thief  who  stole  the  General's  brown  mare, 
or  they  would  know  the  reason  why. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  Lavilette  could 
hear  hoof-beats  behind  him ;  those  of  the 
mare  growing  clearer  and  clearer,  and  those 
of  the  artillerymen  remaining  about  the 
same  —  monotonously  steady.  He  looked 
back,  and  saw  the  mare  lightly  leaning  to 
her  work,  and  a  little  man  hanging  to  her 
back.  He  did  not  know  who  it  was ;  and 
if  he  had  known  he  would  have  wondered. 
Shangois  had  ridden  to  camp  to  fetch  him 
back  to  Bonaventure  for  two  purposes :  to 
secure  the  five  thousand  dollars  from  Ferrol, 


160    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

and  to  save  his  sister  from  marrying  a  high- 
wayman. These  reasons  he  would  have 
given  to  Nic  Lavilette,  but  other  ulterior 
and  malicious  ideas  were  in  his  mind.  He 
had  no  fear,  no  real  fear.  His  body  shrank, 
but  that  was  because  he  had  been  little  used 
to  rough  riding  and  to  peril.  But  he  loved 
this  game  too,  though  there  was  a  troop  of 
foes  behind  him ;  and  as  long  as  they  rode 
behind  him  he  would  ride  on. 

He  foresaw  a  moment  when  he  would  stop, 
slide  to  the  ground,  and  with  his  sabre  kill  one 
man  —  or  more.  Yes,  he  would  kill  one  man. 
He  had  a  devilish  feeling  of  delight  in  thinking 
how  he  would  do  it,  and  how  red  the  sabre 
would  look  when  he  had  done  it.  He  wished 
he  had  a  hundred  hands  and  a  hundred  sabres 
in  those  hands.  More  than  once  he  had  been 
in  danger  of  his  life,  and  yet  he  had  had  no  fear. 

He  had  in  him  the  power  of  hatred,  and 
he  hated  Ferrol  as  he  had  never  hated  anything 
in  his  life.  He  hated  him  as  much  as,  in  a 
furtive  sort  of  way,  he  loved  the  rebellious, 
primitive,  and  violent  Christine.  As  he  rode 
on  a  hundred  fancies  passed  through  his  brain, 
and  they  all  had  to  do  with  killing  or  tortur- 
ing. As  a  boy  dreams  of  magnificent  deeds 
of  prowess,  so  he  dreamed  of  deeds  of  violence 
and  cruelty.  In  his  life  he  had  been  secret, 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    161 

not  vicious  ;  he  had  enjoyed  the  power  which 
comes  from  holding  the  secrets  of  others,  and 
that  had  given  him  pleasure  enough.  But 
now,  as  if  the  true  passion,  the  vital  principle 
asserted  itself  at  the  very  last,  so  with  the 
shadow  of  death  behind  him,  his  real  nature 
was  dominant.  He  was  entirely  sane,  entirely 
natural,  only  malicious. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  lifted  higher  into 
the  sky,  and  the  gray  dawn  crept  slowly  up : 
first  a  glimmer,  then  a  neutral  glow,  then  a 
sort  of  darkness  again,  and  presently  the  candid 
hazy  beginning  of  day. 

As  they  neared  the  Parish  of  Bonaventure, 
Lavilette  looked  back  again,  and  saw  the  little 
black  notary  a  few  hundred  yards  behind.  He 
recognized  him  this  time,  waved  a  hand,  and 
then  called  to  his  own  fagged  horse.  The 
mare  was  not  fagged ;  her  heart  and  body  were 
like  steel. 

Not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  them  both 
were  three  of  the  twenty  artillerymen.  Lav- 
ilette came  to  the  bridge  shouting  for  Baby 
the  keeper.  Baby  recognized  him,  and  ran 
to  the  lever  even  as  the  sorrel  galloped  up. 
For  the  first  time  in  the  night  Nic  stuck  spurs 
harshly  into  the  sorrel's  side.  With  a  grunt 
of  pain  the  horse  sprang  madly  on.  A  half- 
dozen  leaps  more,  and  they  were  across,  even 


1 62    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

as  the  bridge  began  to  turn  ;  for  Baby  had  not 
recognized  the  little  black  notary,  and  sup- 
posed him  to  be  one  of  Nic's  pursuers.  The 
others  he  saw  further  back  in  the  road.  It 
was  only  when  Shangois  was  a  third  of  the 
way  across,  that  he  knew  the  mare's  rider. 
There  was  no  time  to  turn  the  bridge  back, 
and  there  was  no  time  for  Shangois  to  stop 
the  headlong  pace  of  the  mare.  She  gave  a 
wild  whinny  of  fright,  and  jumped  cornerwise 
clear  out  across  the  chasm  towards  the  moving 
bridge.  Her  front  feet  struck  the  timbers,  and 
then  without  a  cry,  mare  and  rider  dropped 
headlong  down  to  the  river  beneath,  swollen 
by  the  autumn  rains. 

Baby  looked  down  and  saw  the  mare's  head 
thrust  above  the  water,  once,  twice;  then 
there  was  a  flash  of  a  sabre  once  above  the 
water  —  and  nothing  more. 

Shangois,  with  his  dreams  of  malice  and 
fighting,  and  the  secrets  of  a  half-dozen  Par- 
ishes strapped  to  his  back,  had  dropped  out  of 
Bonaventure,  as  a  stone  crumbles  from  a  bank 
into  a  stream,  and  many  waters  pass  over  it, 
and  no  one  enquires  whither  it  has  gone,  and 
no  one  mourns  for  it. 


Chapter  XVII 

ON  Sunday  morning  Ferrol  lay  resting 
on  a  sofa  in  a  little  room  off  the 
salon.  He  had  suffered  somewhat 
from  the  bruise  on  his  head,  and 
while  the  Lavilettes,  including  Christine,  were 
at  Mass,  he  remained  behind,  alone  in  the 
house  save  for  two  servants  in  the  kitchen. 
From  where  he  lay  he  could  look  down  into 
the  village.  He  was  thinking  of  the  tangle 
into  which  things  had  got.  Feeling  was 
bitter  against  him,  and  against  the  Lavilettes 
also,  now  that  the  rebels  were  defeated.  It  had 
gone  about  that  he  had  warned  the  Governor. 
The  habitants,  in  their  blind  way,  blamed  him 
for  the  consequences  of  their  own  misdoing; 
they  blamed  Nicolas  Lavilette ;  they  blamed 
the  Lavilettes  for  their  friendship  for  him. 
They  talked  and  blustered,  yet  they  did  not 
interfere  with  the  two  soldiers  who  kept  guard 
at  the  home  of  the  Regimental  Surgeon.  It 
was  expected  that  the  Cure  would  speak  of 
the  Rebellion  from  the  altar  this  morning.  It 
was  also  rumoured  that  he  would  have  some- 

*  163 


164    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

thing  to  say  about  the  Lavilettes,  and  Chris- 
tine had  insisted  upon  going.  He  laughed  to 
think  of  her  fury  when  he  suggested  that  the 
Cure  would  probably  have  something  un- 
pleasant to  say  about  himself.  She  would  go 
and  see  to  that  herself,  she  said.  He  was 
amused,  and  yet  he  was  not  in  high  spirits, 
for  he  had  coughed  a  great  deal  since  the  in- 
cident of  the  day  before,  and  his  strength  was 
much  weakened. 

Presently  he  heard  a  footstep  in  the  room, 
and  turned  over  so  that  he  might  see.  It  was 
Sophie  Farcinelle.  Before  he  had  time  to 
speak  or  to  sit  up,  she  had  dropped  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  Her  face  was  aflame. 

"You  have  been  badly  hurt,  and  I'm  very 
sorry,"  she  said.  "Why  haven't  you  been 
to  see  me  ?  I  looked  for  you.  I  looked 
every  day  and  you  didn't  come,  and  —  and 
I  thought  you  had  forgotten.  Have  you  ? 
Have  you,  Mr.  Ferrol  ?  " 

He  had  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and 
his  face  was  near  hers.  It  was  not  in  him 
to  resist  the  appealing  of  a  pretty  woman, 
and  he  had  scarcely  grasped  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  married  man  —  his  clandestine  meet- 
ings with  his  wife  having  had,  to  this  point, 
rather  an  air  of  adventure  and  irresponsibility. 
It  is  hard  to  say  what  he  might  have  done  or 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    165 

left  undone,  but  as  Sophie's  face  was  within 
an  inch  of  his  own,  the  door  of  the  room  sud- 
denly opened,  and  Christine  appeared.  The 
indignation  that  had  sent  her  back  to  Ferrol 
from  Mass  was  turned  into  another  indigna- 
tion now. 

Sophie,  frightened,  turned  round  and  met 
her  infuriated  look.  She  did  not  move, 
however. 

"  Leave  this  room  at  once.  What  do  you 
want  here  ?  "  Christine  said,  between  gasps- 
of  anger. 

"  The  room  is  as  much  mine  as  yours," 
answered  Sophie,  sullenly. 

"The  man  isn't,"  retorted  Christine,  with 
a  vicious  snap  of  her  teeth. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Ferrol,  in  a  soothing 
tone,  rising  from  the  sofa  and  advancing. 

"  What's  he  to  you  ?  "  said  Sophie,  scorn- 
fully. 

"  My  husband :  that's  all !  "  answered 
Christine.  "And  now,  if  you  please,  will 
you  go  to  yours  ?  You'll  find  him  at  Mass. 
He'll  have  plenty  of  praying  to  do  if  he  prays 
for  you  both  —  voila  !  " 

"  Your  husband  !  "  said  Sophie,  in  a  husky 
voice,  dumfounded  and  distrait.  "  Is  that 
so?"  she  added  to  Ferrol,  "is  she  —  your 
wife  ? " 


1 66    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"  That's  the  case,"  he  answered,  "  and  of 
course,"  he  added  in  a  mollifying  tone,  "  being 
my  sister  as  well  as  Christine's,  there's  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  be  alone  with  me 
in  the  room  a  few  moments.  Is  there  now  ? " 
he  added  to  Christine. 

The  acting  was  clever  enough,  but  not 
quite  convincing,  and  Christine  was  too  ex- 
cited to  respond  to  his  blarney. 

"  He  can't  be  your  real  husband,"  said 
Sophie,  hardly  above  a  whisper.  "  The  Cure 
didn't  marry  you,  did  he  ?  "  She  looked  at 
Ferrol  doubtfully. 

"  Well,  no,"  he  said ;  "  we  were  married 
over  in  Ontario." 

"  By  a  Protestant  ?  "  asked  Sophie. 

Christine  interrupted.  "  What's  that  to 
you  ?  I  hope  I'll  never  see  your  face  again 
while  I  live !  I  want  to  be  alone  with  my 
husband,  and  your  husband  wants  to  be  alone 
with  his  wife :  won't  you  oblige  us  and  him 
—  him?" 

Sophie  gave  Ferrol  a  look  which  haunted 
him  while  he  lived.  One  idle  afternoon  he 
had  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  little  storm  in  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  and  a  whirlwind  was 
driving  through  her  life  to  parch  and  make 
desolate  the  green  fields  of  her  youth  and 
womanhood.  He  had  loitered  and  dallied 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    167 

without  motive;  but  the  idle  and  unmeaning 
sinner  is  the  most  dangerous  to  others  and  to 
himself,  and  he  realized  it  at  that  moment  as 
far  as  it  was  in  him  to  realize  anything  of 
the  kind.  , 

Sophie's  figure  as  it  left  the  room  had  that 
drooping,  beaten  look  which  only  comes  to  the 
stricken  and  the  incurably  humiliated. 

"  What  have  you  said  to  her  ? "  asked  Chris- 
tine of  Ferrol,  "  what  have  you  done  to  her  ? " 

"  I  didn't  do  a  thing,  upon  my  soul ;  I 
didn't  say  a  thing.  She'd  only  just  come  in." 

"  What  did  she  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  As  near  as  I  can  remember,  she  said, c  You 
have  been  hurt,  and  I'm  very  sorry.  Why 
haven't  you  been  to  see  me  ?  I  looked  for 
you,  but  you  didn't  come,  and  I  thought  you 
had  forgotten  me.'  " 

"  What  did  she  mean  by  that  ?  How  dared 
she !  " 

"  See  here,  Christine,"  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  on  her  quivering  shoulder,  "  I  didn't  say 
much  to  her.  I  was  over  there  one  afternoon 
—  the  afternoon  I  asked  you  to  marry  me. 
I  drank  a  lot  of  liqueur;  she  looked  very 
pretty,  and  before  she  had  a  chance  to  say  yes 
or  no  about  it  I  kissed  her.  Now  that's  a  fact. 
I've  never  spent  five  minutes  with  her  alone, 
I  haven't  even  seen  her  since,  until  this  morn- 


1 68    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

ing.  Now  that's  the  honest  truth.  I  know 
it  was  scampish,  but  I  never  pretended  to  be 
good.  It  is  nothing  for  you  to  make  a  fuss 
about,  because  whatever  I  am  —  and  it  isn't 
much  one  way  or  another  —  I  am  all  yours, 
straight  as  a  die,  Christine.  I  suppose  if  we 
lived  together  fifty  years,  I'd  probably  kiss 
fifty  women  —  once  a  year  isn't  a  high  aver- 
age ;  but  those  kisses  wouldn't  mean  any- 
thing ;  and  you,  you  my  girl,"  —  he  bent  his 
head  down  to  her,  —  "  why,  you  mean  every- 
thing to  me,  and  I  wouldn't  give  one  kiss  of 
yours  for  a  hundred  thousand  of  any  other 
woman's  in  the  world  !  What  you've  done 
for  me,  and  what  you'd  do  for  me  —  " 

There  was  a  strange  pathos  in  his  voice  — 
an  uncommon  thing,  because  his  usual  elo- 
quence was,  as  a  rule,  more  pleasing  than 
touching.  A  quick  change  of  feeling  passed 
over  her,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He 
ran  his  arm  round  her  shoulder. 

"  Ah,  come,  come  !  "  he  said,  with  a  touch 
of  insinuating  brogue,  and  kissed  her.  "  Come, 
it's  all  right.  I  didn't  mean  anything,  and  she 
didn't  mean  anything,  and  let's  start  fresh 
again." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  quick  intelli- 
gence. 

"That's  just  what  we'll  have  to  do,"  she 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    169 

said.      "The   Cure   this   morning    at    Mass 
scolded  the  people  about  the  Rebellion,  and 
said   that  Nic  and  you  had  brought  all  this 
trouble  upon   Bonaventure ;    and    everybody 
looked  at  our  pew  and  snickered.     Oh,  how 
I  hate  them  all !     Then  I  jumped  up  —  " 
"  Well  ?  "  asked  Ferrol,  "  and  what  then  ? " 
"I  told  them  that  my  brother  wasn't   a 
coward,  and  that  you  were  my  husband." 
"And  then  —  then  what  happened  ?  " 
"  Oh,    then    there    was    a    great    fuss    in 
the  church,  and  the  Cure  said  ugly  things, 
and    I    left    and   came    home   quick.      And 
now  —  " 

"  Well,  and  now  ?  "  Ferrol  interrupted. 
"  Well,  now  we'll  have  to  do  something." 
"You  mean  to  go  away  ? "  he  asked,  with  a 
little  shrug  of  his  shoulder.     She  nodded  her 
head. 

He  was  depressed  :  he  had  had  a  hemorrhage 
that  morning,  and  the  road  seemed  to  close 
in  on  him  on  all  sides. 

"  How  are  we  to  live  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a 
little  sort  of  smile. 

She  looked  up  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment 
without  speaking.  He  did  not  understand 
the  look  in  her  eyes,  until  she  said  : 

"  You  have  that  five  thousand  dollars  !  " 
He  drew  back  a  step  from  her,  and  met  her 


170    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

unwavering  look  a  little  fearfully.  She  knew 
that  —  she  — 

"  When  did  you  find  it  out  ?  "  he  asked. 

"The  morning  we  were  married,"  she 
replied. 

"  And  you  —  you  Christine,  you  married 
me,  a  thief!  "  She  nodded  again. 

"  What  difference  could  it  make  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  wouldn't  have  been  happy  if  I 
hadn't  married  you.  And  I  loved  you  !  " 

"  Look  here,  Christine,"  he  said,  "  that 
five  thousand  dollars  is  not  for  you  or  for  me. 
You  will  be  safe  enough  if  anything  should 
happen  to  me ;  your  people  would  look  after 
you,  and  you  have  some  money  in  your  own 
right.  But  I've  a  sister,  and  she's  lame.  She 
never  had  to  do  a  stroke  of  work  in  her  life, 
and  she  can't  do  it  now.  I  have  shared 
with  her  anything  I  have  had  since  times 
went  wrong  with  us  and  our  family.  I 
needed  money  bad  enough,  but  I  didn't  care 
very  much  whether  I  got  it  for  myself  or  not 
—  only  for  her.  I  wanted  that  five  thousand 
dollars  for  her,  and  to  her  it  shall  go ;  not 
one  penny  to  you,  or  to  me,  or  to  any  other 
human  being.  The  Rebellion  is  over;  that 
money  wouldn't  have  altered  things  one  way 
or  another.  It's  mine,  and  if  anything  hap- 
pens to  me  —  " 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    171 

He  suddenly  stooped  down  and  caught 
her  hands,  looking  her  in  the  eyes  steadily. 

"  Christine,"  said  he,  "  I  want  you  never 
to  ask  me  to  spend  a  penny  of  that  money ; 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  me,  by  the  name 
of  the  Virgin  Mary,  that  you'll  see  my  sister 
gets  it,  and  that  you'll  never  let  her  or  any 
one  else  know  where  it  came  from.  Come, 
Christine,  will  you  do  it  for  me  ?  I  know 
it's  very  little  indeed  I  give  you,  and  you're 
giving  me  everything;  but  some  people  are 
born  to  be  debtors,  in  this  world,  and  some 
to  be  creditors,  and  some  give  all  and  get 
little,  because  —  " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  Because  they  love  as  I  love  you,"  she 
said,  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
"  Show  me  where  the  money  is,  and  I'll  do 
all  you  say,  if —  " 

"  Yes ;  if  anything  happens  to  me,"  he 
said,  and  dropped  his  hand  caressingly  upon 
her  head.  He  loved  her  in  that  moment. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her  again  and  again  upon  her 
lips.  She  was  still  in  his  arms  as  the  door 
opened  and  Monsieur  and  Madame  Lavilette 
entered,  pale  and  angry. 


Chapter  XVIII 

THAT  night  the  British  soldiers  camped 
in  the  village.  All  over  the  country 
the  rebels  had  been  scattered  and 
beaten,  and  Bonaventure  had  been 
humbled  and  injured.  After  the  blind  in- 
justice of  the  cowardly  and  the  beaten, 
Nicolas  Lavilette  and  his  family  were  blamed 
for  the  miseries  which  had  come  upon  the 
place.  They  had  emerged  from  their  isola- 
tion to  tempt  popular  favour,  had  contrived 
many  designs  and  ambitions,  and  in  the 
midst  of  their  largest  hopes  were  humiliated, 
and  were  followed  by  resentment.  The 
position  was  intolerable.  In  happy  circum- 
stances, Christine's  marriage  with  Ferrol 
might  have  been  a  completion  of  their  glory, 
but  in  reality  it  was  the  last  blow  to  their 
progress. 

In  the  dusk,  Ferrol  and  Christine  sat  in 
his  room ;  she,  defiant,  indignant,  courage- 
ous ;  he  hiding  his  real  feelings,  and  know- 
ing that  all  she  now  planned  and  arranged 
would  come  to  naught.  Three  times  that 
day  he  had  had  violent  paroxysms  of  cough- 

172 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    173 

ing;  and  at  last  had  thrown  himself  on  his 
bed,  exhausted,  helplessly  wishing  that  some- 
thing would  end  it  all.  Illusion  had  passed 
forever.  He  no  longer  had  a  cold,  but  a 
mortal  trouble  that  was  killing  him  inch  by 
inch.  He  remembered  how  a  brother  officer 
of  his,  dying  of  an  incurable  disease,  and 
abhorring  suicide,  had  gone  into  a  cafe,  and 
slapped  an  unoffending  bully  and  duellist  in 
the  face,  inviting  a  combat.  The  end  was 
sure,  easy,  and  honourable.  For  himself  — 
he  looked  at  Christine.  Not  all  her  abound- 
ing vitality,  her  warm,  healthy  body,  or  her 
overwhelming  love,  could  give  him  one  extra 
day  of  life,  not  one  day.  What  a  fool  he 
had  been  to  think  that  she  could  do  so ! 
And  she  must  sit  and  watch  him  —  she, 
with  her  primitive  fierceness  of  love,  must 
watch  him  sinking,  fading  helplessly  out  of 
life,  sight,  and  being. 

A  bottle  of  whiskey  was  beside  him. 
During  the  two  hours  just  gone  he  had 
drunk  a  whole  pint  of  it !  He  poured  out 
another  half-glass,  filled  it  with  milk,  and 
drank  it  off  slowly.  At  that  moment  a 
knock  came  to  the  door.  Christine  opened 
it,  and  admitted  one  of  the  fugitives  of  Nico- 
las' company  of  rebels.  He  saw  Ferrol,  and 
came  straight  to  him. 


174    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

"A  letter  for  M'sieu'  the  Honourable," 
said  he,  "from  M'sieu'  le  Capitaine  Lavi- 
lette." 

Ferrol  opened  the  paper.  It  contained 
only  a  few  lines.  Nicolas  was  hiding  in  the 
storeroom  of  the  vacant  farmhouse,  and 
Ferrol  must  assist  him  to  escape  to  the 
State  of  New  York. 

He  had  stolen  into  the  village  from  the 
north,  and,  afraid  to  trust  any  one  except 
this  faithful  member  of  his  company,  had 
taken  refuge  in  a  place  where,  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  he  could  defend  himself, 
for  a  time  at  least.  Twenty  rifles  of  the 
rebels  had  been  stored  in  the  farmhouse,  and 
they  were  all  loaded !  Ferrol,  of  course, 
could  go  where  he  liked,  being  a  Britisher, 
and  nobody  would  notice  him.  Would  he 
not  try  to  get  him  away  ? 

While  Christine  questioned  the  fugitive, 
Ferrol  thought  the  matter  over.  One  thing 
he  knew :  the  solution  of  the  great  problem 
had  come;  and  the  means  to  the  solution 
ran  through  his  head  like  lightning.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  drank  off  a  few  mouthfuls 
of  undiluted  whiskey,  filled  a  flask,  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  found  his  pistols, 
and  put  on  his  great-coat,  muffler,  and  cap 
before  he  spoke  a  word. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    175 

Christine  stood  watching  him  intently. 

u  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Tom  ? "  she 
said  quietly. 

"I  am  going  to  save  your  brother,  if  I 
can,"  was  his  reply,  as  he  handed  her  Nic's 
letter. 


Chapter  XIX. 

HALF  an   hour  later,  as  Ferrol  was 
passing  from  Louis  Lavilette's  sta- 
bles  into   the   road   leading   to   the 
Seigneury,  he  met  Sophie  Farcinelle 
face  to  face.     In  a  vague  sort  of  way  he  was 
conscious  that  a  look  of  despair  and  misery 
had   suddenly   wasted  the    bloom    upon    her 
cheek,  and  given  to  the  large  cowlike  eyes 
an  expression  of  child-like  hopelessness.     An 
apathy  had  settled  upon  his  nerves :   he  saw 
things  as  in   a   dream.      His    brain    worked 
swiftly,  but  everything  that  passed  before  his 
eyes  was,  as  it  were,  in  a  kaleidoscope,  vivid 
and  glowing,  but  yet  intangible.     His  brain 
told  him  that  here  before  him  was  a  woman, 
into  whose  life  he  had  brought  its  first  ordeal 
and  humiliation.     But  his  heart  only  felt  a 
reflective  sort  of  pity :  it  was  not  a  personal 
or  immediate  realization,  that  is,  not  at  first. 
He  was  scarcely  conscious  that  he  stood 
and    looked    at    her   for  quite   two   minutes 
without  motion   or  speech   on  the   part   of 
either,  but  the  dumb,  desolate  look  in  her 
176 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    177 

eyes  —  a  look  of  appeal,  astonishment,  horror, 
and  shame  combined,  presently  clarified  his 
senses,  and  he  slowly  grew  to  look  at  her  as 
at  his  punishment  —  the  punishment  of  his 
life.  Before,  always  before,  Sophie  had  been 
vague  and  indistinct,  seen  to-day,  forgotten 
to-morrow ;  and  previous  to  meeting  her 
thousands  had  affected  his  senses,  affected 
them  not  at  all  deeply. 

She  was  like  a  date  in  history  to  a  boy 
who  remembers  that  it  meant  something,  but 
what,  is  not  quite  sure.  But  the  meaning 
and  definiteness  were  his  own.  Out  of  the 
irresponsibility  of  his  nature,  out  of  his  moral 
ineptitude,  to  which  he  had  been  born,  moral 
knowledge  came  to  him  at  last.  Love  had 
not  done  it ;  neither  the  love  of  Christine  as 
strong  as  death,  nor  the  love  of  his  sister,  the 
deepest  thing  he  ever  knew ;  but  the  look  of 
a  woman  wronged.  He  had  inflicted  on  her 
the  deepest  wrong  that  may  be  done  a  woman. 
A  woman  can  forgive  passion  and  ruin,  and 
worse,  if  the  man  loves  her,  and  she  can  for- 
give herself,  remembering  that  to  her  who 
loved  much  much  was  forgiven.  But  out 
of  wilful  idleness,  the  mere  flattery  of  the 
senses,  a  vampire  feeding  upon  the  spirits  and 
souls  of  others,  for  nothing  save  emotion  for 
emotion's  sake,  —  that  was  shameless,  it  was 


178    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

the  last  humiliation  of  a  woman.  As  it  were, 
to  lose  joy,  and  glow,  and  fervour  of  young, 
sincere,  and  healthy  life,  to  flag  up  the  dying 
vitality  and  morbid  brain  of  a  consumptive! 
All  in  a  flash  he  saw  it,  realized  it,  and 
hated  himself  for  it.  He  knew  that  as  long 
as  he  lived,  an  hour  or  ten  years,  he  never 
could  redeem  himself;  never  could  forgive 
himself,  and  never  buy  back  the  life  that  he 
had  injured.  Many  a  time  in  his  life  he  had 
kissed  and  ridden  away,  and  had  been  unan- 
noyed  by  conscience.  But  in  proportion  as 
conscience  had  neglected  him  before,  it 
ground  him  now  between  the  stones,  and  he 
saw  himself.  Born  into  a  gentleman's  fam- 
ily, he  knew  he  was  not  a  gentleman.  Hav- 
ing learned  the  forms  and  courtesies  of  life, 
having  infused  his  whole  career  with  a  spirit 
of  gay  bonhomie,  he  knew  that  in  truth  he  was 
a  swaggerer,  that  bad  taste,  infamous  bad 
taste,  had  marked  almost  everything  that  he 
had  done  in  his  life.  He  had  passed  as  one 
of  the  nobility,  but  he  knew  that  all  true 
men,  all  he  had  ever  met,  must  have  read 
him  through  and  through.  He  had  under- 
stood this  before  to  a  certain  point,  had  read 
himself  to  a  certain  mark  of  gauge,  but  he 
had  never  been  honestly  and  truly  a  man 
until  this  moment.  His  soul  was  naked  be- 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    179 

fore  his  eyes.  It  had  been  naked  before, 
but  he  had  laughed.  Born  without  real  re- 
morse, he  felt  it  at  last.  The  true  thing 
started  within  him.  God  the  avenger,  the 
revealer,  and  the  healer  had  held  up  this 
woman  as  a  glass  to  him  that  he  might  see 
himself. 

He  saw  her  as  she  had  been,  a  docile,  soft- 
eyed  girl  untouched  by  anything  that  defames 
or  shames,  and  all  in  a  moment  the  man  that 
had  never  been  into  him  until  now  from  the 
time  he  laughed  first  into  his  mother's  eyes 
as  a  child,  spoke  out  as  simple  as  a  child 
would  have  spoken  and  told  the  truth.  There 
were  no  ameliorating  phrases  to  soften  it  to 
her  ears ;  there  was  no  tact ;  there  was  no 
blarney;  there  was  no  suave  suggestion  now ; 
no  cheap  gaiety ;  no  cynicism  of  the  social 
vampire  ;  only  the  direct  reflection  of  a  self- 
reproachful,  dying  man. 

"I  didn't  fully  know  what  I  was  doing," 
he  said  to  her.  "  If  I  had  understood  then  as 
I  do  now,  I  would  never  have  come  near  you. 
It  was  the  worst  wickedness  I  ever  did." 

The  new  note  in  his  voice,  the  new  fashion 
of  his  words,  the  new  look  of  his  eyes  startled 
her,  confused  her.  She  could  scarcely  believe 
he  was  the  same  man.  The  dumb  desolation 
lifted  a  little,  and  a  look  of  understanding 


180    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

seemed  to  pierce  her  tragic  apathy.  As  if  a 
current  of  thought  had  been  suddenly  sent 
through  her,  she  drew  herself  up  with  a  little 
shiver,  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  about 
to  speak ;  but  instead  of  doing  so,  a  strange 
unhappy  smile  passed  across  her  lips. 

He  saw  that  all  the  goodness  of  her  nature 
was  trying  to  arouse  itself  and  assure  him 
forgiveness.  It  did  not  deceive  him  in  the 
least. 

"  I  won't  be  so  mean  now  as  to  say  I  was 
weak,"  he  added.  "  I  was  not  weak  ;  I  was 
bad.  I  always  felt  I  was  born  a  liar  and  a 
thief.  I've  lied  to  myself  all  my  life,  and 
I've  lied  to  other  people  because  I  never  was 
a  true  man." 

u  A  thief!  "  she  said  at  last,  scarcely  above 
a  whisper,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  flash  of 
horror  in  her  eyes;  "  a  thief!  " 

It  was  no  use ;  he  could  not  allow  her  to 
think  he  meant  a  thief  in  the  vulgar,  com- 
mon sense,  though  that  was  what  he  was : 
just  a  common  criminal. 

"  I  have  stolen  the  kind  thoughts  and  love 
of  people  to  whom  I  gave  nothing  in  return," 
he  said  steadily.  "  There  is  nothing  good  in 
me.  I  used  to  think  I  was  good-natured, 
but  I  was  not,  or  I  wouldn't  have  brought 
misery  to  a  girl  like  you." 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    181 

His  truth  broke  down  the  barriers  of  her 
anger  and  despair.  Something  welled  up  in 
her  heart :  it  might  have  been  love,  it  might 
have  been  inherent  womanliness. 

"  Why  did  you  marry  Christine  ? "  she 
asked. 

All  at  once  he  saw  that  she  never  could 
quite  understand.  Her  standpoint  would 
still,  in  the  end,  be  the  standpoint  of  a 
woman.  He  saw  that  she  would  have  for- 
given him,  even  had  he  not  loved  her,  if  he 
had  not  married  Christine.  For  the  first 
time  he  knew  something,  the  real  something, 
of  a  woman's  heart.  He  had  never  known 
it  before,  because  he  had  been  so  false  him- 
self. He  might  have  been  evil  and  had  a 
conscience  too ;  then  he  would  have  been 
wise.  But  he  had  been  evil  and  had  had  no 
conscience  or  moral  mentor  from  the  begin- 
ning, so  he  had  never  known  anything  real 
in  his  life.  He  thought  he  had  known  Chris- 
tine, but  now  he  saw  her  in  a  new  light, 
through  the  eyes  of  her  sister,  from  whose 
heart  he  had  gathered  a  harvest  of  passion 
and  affection,  and  had  burnt  the  stubble  and 
seared  the  soil  forever.  Sophie  could  never 
justify  herself  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband  or 
in  her  own  eyes,  because  the  man  did  not 
love  her.  Even  as  he  stood  before  her  there, 


1 82    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

declaring  himself  to  her  as  wilfully  wicked 
in  all  that  he  had  said  and  done,  she  still 
longed  passionately  for  the  thing  that  was 
denied  her.  Not  her  lost  truth  back,  but 
the  love  that  would  have  compensated  for 
her  suffering,  and  in  some  poor  sense  have 
justified  her  in  years  to  come.  She  did  not 
put  it  into  words,  but  the  thought  was  bluntly 
in  her  mind.  She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  which  dropped  down  her 
cheek  to  the  ground. 

He  was  about  to  answer  her  question, 
when,  all  at  once,  her  honest  eyes  looked 
into  his  mournfully,  and  she  said  with  an 
incredible  pathos  and  simplicity : 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  live  on 
with  Magon.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  keep 
pretending  till  I  die !  " 

The  bell  in  the  church  was  ringing  for 
Vespers.  It  sounded  peaceful  and  quiet,  as 
though  no  war  or  rebellion,  nor  misery  and 
shame,  were  anywhere  within  the  radius  of 
its  travel. 

Just  where  they  stood  there  was  a  tall 
calvary.  Behind  it  was  some  shrubbery. 
Ferrol  was  going  to  answer  her,  when  he 
saw,  coming  along  the  road,  the  cure  in  his 
robes,  bearing  the  Host.  In  front  of  him 
trotted  an  acolyte,  swinging  the  censer. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    183 

Ferrol  quickly  drew  Sophie  aside  behind 
the  bushes,  where  they  should  not  be  seen ; 
for  he  was  no  longer  reckless ;  he  wished  to 
be  careful  for  the  woman's  sake. 

The  cure  did  not  turn  his  head  to  the  right 
or  left,  but  came  along  chanting  something 
slowly.  The  smell  of  the  incense  floated 
past  them.  When  the  priest  and  the  lad 
reached  the  calvary  they  turned  towards  it, 
bowed,  crossed  themselves,  and  the  lad  rang 
a  little  silver  bell.  Then  the  two  passed  ont 
the  lad  still  ringing.  When  they  were  out 
of  sight  the  sound  of  the  bell  came  softly, 
softly,  up  the  road,  while  the  bell  in  the 
church  tower  still  called  to  prayer. 

The  words  the  priest  chanted  seemed  to. 
ring  through  the  air  after  he  had  gone : 

"  God  have  mercy  upon  the  passing  soul ! 
God  have  mercy  upon  the  passing  soul ! 
Hear  the  prayer  of  the  sinner,  oh  Lord, 
Listen  to  the  voice  of  those  that  mourn, 
Have  mercy  upon  the  sinner,  oh  Lord!" 

When  Ferrol  turned  to  Sophie  again,  both 
her  hands  were  clasping  the  calvary,  and  she 
had  dropped  her  head  upon  them. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  move. 


184    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

Again  he  spoke  to  her,  but  she  did  not  lift 
her  head. 

Presently,  however,  as  he  stood  watching 
her,  she  moved  away  from  the  calvary,  and, 
with  her  back  still  turned  to  him,  stepped  out 
into  the  road  and  hurried  on  towards  her 
home,  never  once  turning  her  head. 

He  stood  looking  after  her  for  a  moment, 
then  turned,  and,  sitting  on  a  log  behind  the 
shrubbery,  he  tore  a  few  pieces  of  paper  out 
of  a  note-book  and  began  writing.  He  wrote 
swiftly  for  about  twenty  minutes  or  more, 
then  arising,  he  moved  on  towards  the  vil- 
lage where  crowds  had  gathered  excited,  fear- 
ful, tumultuous  j  for  the  British  soldiers  had 
just  entered  the  place. 

Ferrol  seemed  almost  oblivious  of  the 
threatening  crowds  which  once  or  twice 
jostled  him  more  than  was  accidental.  He 
came  into  the  post-office,  got  an  envelope, 
put  his  letter  inside  it,  stamped  it,  addressed 
it  to  Christine,  and  dropped  it  into  the  letter- 
box. 


Chapter  XX 

AN  hour  later,  he  stood  among  a  few 
companies  of  British  soldiers  in  front 
of  the  massive  stone  storehouse  of  the 
Lavilette's  abandoned  farmhouse,  with 
its  thick  shuttered  windows  and  its  solid  oak 
doors.     It  was  too  late  to  attempt  the  fugi- 
tive's escape,  save  by  strategy.     Over  half  an 
hour  Nic  had  kept  them  at  bay.     He  had 
made  loop-holes  in  the  shutters  and  the  door, 
and  from  these  he  fired  upon  his  assailants. 
Already  he  had  wounded  five  and  killed  two. 
Men   had  been   sent  for  timber  to  batter 
down   the  door  and  windows.     Meanwhile, 
the  troops  stood  at  a  respectful  distance  out 
of  the  range  of  Nic's  firing,  awaiting  devel- 
opments. 

Ferrol  consulted  with  the  officers,  advising 
a  truce  and  parley,  offering  himself  as  medi- 
ator to  induce  Nic  to  surrender.  To  this 
the  officers  assented,  but  warned  him  that  his 
life  might  pay  the  price  of  his  temerity.  He 
laughed  at  this.  He  had  been  talking  with 
his  head  and  throat  well  muffled,  and  the 


1 86    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

collar  of  his  great  coat  drawn  about  his  ears. 
Once  or  twice  he  coughed  —  a  hacking, 
wrenching  cough  which  struck  the  ears  of 
more  than  one  of  the  officers  painfully,  for 
they  had  known  him  in  his  best  and  gayest 
days  at  Quebec. 

It  was  arranged  that  he  should  advance, 
holding  out  a  flag  of  truce.  Before  he  went 
he  drew  aside  one  of  the  younger  lieutenants, 
in  whose  home  at  Quebec  his  sister  had 
always  been  a  welcome  visitor,  and  told  him 
briefly  the  story  of  his  marriage,  of  his  wife, 
and  of  Nicolas.  He  sent  Christine  a  message, 
that  she  should  not  forget  to  carry  his  last 
token  to  his  sister!  Then,  turning,  he  muffled 
up  his  face  against  the  crisp  harsh  air  (there 
was  design  in  this,  also),  and,  waving  a  white 
handkerchief,  advanced  to  the  door  of  the 
storeroom. 

The  soldiers  waited  anxiously,  fearing  that 
Nic  would  fire,  in  spite  of  all;  but  pres- 
ently a  spot  of  white  appeared  at  one  of  the 
loop-holes,  then  the  door  was  slowly  opened, 
Ferrol  entered,  and  it  was  closed  again. 

Nicolas  Lavilette  grasped  his  hand. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  go  back  on  me," 
said  he ;  "I  knew  you  were  my  friend ! 
What  the  devil  do  they  want  out  there  ?  " 

*'  I  am  more  than  your  friend ;  I'm  your 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    187 

brother,"  answered  Ferrol,  meaningly.  Then, 
quickly  taking  off  his  great-coat,  cap,  muffler, 
and  boots,  "  Quick  !  On  with  these  !  "  he 
said.  "  There's  no  time  to  lose  !  " 

"  What's  all  this  ?  "  asked  Nic. 

"Never  mind;  do  exactly  as  I  say,  and 
there's  a  chance  for  you." 

Nic  put  on  the  overcoat,  Ferrol  placed  the 
cap  on  his  head  and  muffled  him  up  exactly 
as  he  himself  had  been,  then  made  him  put 
on  his  own  top-boots. 

u  Now,  see,"  he  said,  "  everything  depends 
upon  how  you  do  this  thing.  You  are  about 
my  height.  Pass  yourself  off  for  me.  Walk 
loose  and  long  as  I  do,  and  cough  like  me  as 
you  go." 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  showing  him 
what  the  cough  was  like :  he  involuntarily 
offered  an  illustration  as  he  spoke. 

"As  soon  as  I  shut  the  door  and  you  start 
forward,  Pll  fire  on  them.  That'll  divert 
their  attention  from  you.  They'll  take  you 
for  me,  and  think  I've  failed  in  persuading 
you  to  give  yourself  up.  Go  straight  on  — 
don't  hurry  —  coughing  all  the  time,  and  if 
you  can  make  the  dark  just  beyond  the  sol- 
diers by  the  garden  bench,  you'll  find  two 
men.  They'll  help  you.  Strike  for  the  big 
tree  on  the  Seigneury  Road  —  you  know : 


1 88    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

where  you  were  robbed  !  There  you'll  find 
the  fastest  horse  from  your  father's  stables. 
Then  ride,  my  boy,  ride  for  your  life  to  the 
State  of  New  York  !  " 

"  And  you  —  you  ?  "  asked  Nicolas. 

Ferrol  laughed. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  me,  Nic;  I'll 
get  out  of  this  all  right ;  as  right  as  rain ! 
Are  you  ready  ?  Steady  now,  steady.  Let 
me  hear  you  cough." 

Nic  coughed. 

"No,  that  isn't  it,  listen  and  watch." 
Ferrol  coughed.  "  Here,"  he  said,  taking 
something  from  his  pocket,  "  open  your 
mouth."  He  threw  some  salt  and  pepper 
down  the  other's  throat.  "Now  try  it." 

Nic  coughed  almost  convulsively. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it !  Just  keep  that 
up  !  Come  along  now.  Quick,  not  a 
moment  to  lose  !  Steady  !  You're  all  right, 
my  boy;  you've  got  nerve,  and  that's  the 
thing  !  Good-bye,  Nic,  good  luck  to  you !  " 

They  grasped  hands,  the  door  opened 
swiftly,  and  Nic  stepped  outside.  In  an 
instant  Ferrol  was  at  the  loop-hole.  Rais- 
ing a  rifle,  he  fired,  then  again  and  again. 
Through  the  loop-hole  he  could  see  a  half- 
dozen  men  lift  a  log  to  advance  on  the  door 
as  Nic  passed  a  couple  of  officers,  coughing 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    189 

hard,  and  making  spasmodic  motions  with  his 
hand,  as  though  exhausted  and  unable  to 
speak. 

He  fired  again,  and  a  soldier  fell.  The 
lust  of  fighting  was  in  him  now.  It  was  not 
a  question  of  country  or  of  race,  but  only  a 
man  crowding  the  power  of  old  instincts 
into  the  last  moments  of  his  life.  The 
vigour  and  valour  of  a  reconquered  youth 
seemed  to  inspire  him;  he  felt  as  he  did 
when  a  mere  boy  fighting  on  the  Danube. 
His  blood  rioted  in  his  veins  ;  his  eyes  flashed. 
He  lifted  the  flask  of  whiskey  and  gulped 
down  great  mouthfuls  of  it,  and  fired  again 
and  again,  laughing  madly. 

"  Let  them  come  on,  let  them  come  on," 
he  cried.  "By  God,  I'll  settle  them!" 
The  frenzy  of  war  possessed  him.  He 
heard  the  timber  crash  against  the  door, 
once,  twice,  thrice,  and  then  give  way. 
He  swung  round  and  saw  men's  faces  blaz- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  then  another 
face  shot  in  before  the  others  —  that  of 
Vanne  Castine! 

With  a  cry  of  fury  he  ran  forward  into 
the  doorway.  Castine  saw  him  at  the  same 
moment.  With  a  similar  instinct  each  sprang 
for  the  other's  throat,  Castine  with  a  knife  in 
his  hand. 


190    The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

A  cry  of  astonishment  went  up  from  the 
officers  and  the  men  without.  They  had  ex- 
pected to  see  Nic,  but  Nic  was  on  his  way 
to  the  horse  beneath  the  great  elm  tree,  and 
from  the  elm  tree  to  the  State  of  New  York 
—  and  safety  ! 

The  men  and  the  officers  fell  back  as 
Castine  and  Ferrol  clinched  in  a  death  strug- 
gle. Ferrol  knew  that  his  end  had  come. 
He  had  expected  it,  hoped  for  it.  But  before 
the  end  he  wanted  to  kill  this  man,  if  he 
could.  He  caught  Castine's  head  in  his 
hands,  and  with  a  last  effort  twisted  it  back 
with  a  sudden  jerk. 

All  at  once  blood  spurted  from  his  mouth 
into  the  face  of  his  enemy.  He  shivered, 
tottered,  and  fell  back,  as  Castine  struck 
blindly  into  space.  For  a  moment  Ferrol 
swayed  back  and  forth,  stretched  out  his 
hands  convulsively,  and  gasped,  trying  to 
speak,  the  blood  welling  from  his  lips.  His 
eyes  were  wild,  anxious,  and  yearning,  his 
face  deadly  pale  and  covered  with  a  cold 
sweat.  Presently  he  collapsed  like  a  loos- 
ened bundle  upon  the  steps. 

Castine,  blinded  with  blood,  turned  round, 
and  the  light  of  the  fire  upon  his  open  mouth 
made  him  appear  to  grin  painfully  —  an  in- 
voluntary grimace  of  terror. 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes    191 

At  that  instant  a  rifle  shot  rang  out  from 
among  the  shrubbery,  and  Castine  sprang 
from  the  ground  and  fell  at  Ferrol's  feet. 
Then  with  a  contortive  shudder  he  rolled 
over  and  over  the  steps,  and  lay  face  down- 
ward upon  the  ground,  dead. 

A  girl  ran  forward  from  the  shrubbery, 
with  a  cry,  pushing  her  way  through  to 
Ferrol's  body.  Lifting  up  his  head,  she 
called  to  him  in  an  agony  of  entreaty.  But 
he  made  no  answer. 

"  That's  the  woman  who  fired  the  shot !  " 
said  an  officer,  excitedly ;  "  I  saw  her !  " 

"Shut  up,  you  fool — it  was  his  wife!" 
exclaimed  the  young  lieutenant  to  whom 
Ferrol  had  given  his  last  message  for  Chris- 
tine. 


BS 


